


The Case of the Murdered Monk

by SadakoTetsuwan



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Noir, Assassination, Betrayal, Big Bang Challenge, Bottom Jesse McCree, Crime Scenes, Deadlock Gang, Detective Noir, Developing Relationship, Emily is a police officer, F/F, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Hardboiled, Homme Fatale, King's Row (Overwatch), M/M, McBigBang 2017/2018, Mondatta assassination, Omnic Racism, Post-Omnic Crisis, Private Investigators, Private investigator Jesse McCree, Smoking, Talon - Freeform, Yakuza Hanzo Shimada, cheeky nando's, detective McCree, prison break - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-30
Updated: 2018-03-30
Packaged: 2019-04-01 01:24:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 36,891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13987443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SadakoTetsuwan/pseuds/SadakoTetsuwan
Summary: Jesse McCree is a private eye in New York City whose vacation from work is about to be rudely interrupted. First, Hanzo Shimada, a shockingly handsome man with a dark past, waltzes into his office seeking protection from the criminal elements out for his blood—with the promise of solid pay until the danger has passed. Then he receives a panicked call from his apprentice-cum-secretary, Lena Oxton, begging for her boss's assistance in investigating the assassination of the internationally known peace advocate Tekhartha Mondatta. With both Lena's eyewitness account and Hanzo's feeling of obligation to the Shambali Order for taking in his brother Genji, McCree has little choice but to take on…"The Case of the Murdered Monk"





	1. Jesse McCree, Private Investigator

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to my first Big Bang Challenge fic! You’d think with how long I’ve been in fandom, I would have done one already…
> 
> First, I would like to thank everyone who made this fic possible. I thank [PersonalSpin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PersonalSpin/pseuds/PersonalSpin) for britpicking this piece (you should check out their piece [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13887222/)!), my stepdad for listening to my complaints about writer’s block and for skipping over the smutty parts and just offering advice on weaponry and tactics, and the Writer’s Block Discord group for their frequent writing sprints to help keep me on task.
> 
> I must thank [hiddeninthunder](http://hiddeninthunder.tumblr.com) for contributing the art, and commend her for drawing for not one, but [two stories](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14131689) in this event! I'll post each piece in the corresponding chapters, with the link to her whole post at the end <3
> 
> No Big Bang would be possible without an organizer, and the [McBigBang 2017/2018](http://mcbigbang.tumblr.com) was organized by none other than Dee. Thank you so much for putting up with all of the shenanigans and tomfoolery to help make this event go.
> 
> This fic is a Canon Divergent story; in this fic, Sojiro died much closer to present day. This is also a version of the Overwatch universe where typical hardboiled film noir tropes are reality—probably because of Overwatch’s fall, to be honest. The world gets a lot darker when you lose beacons of hope, after all…

A city like this is no place for the faint-of-heart. The gleaming edifices have long since been tarnished; in many cases, they were just facades to begin with, so losing their gilding didn’t mean much anyway, but for others, like the former UN headquarters, it meant a little more. That, after all, was where heroes came from.

Right up until the Omnics bombed them, forcing Overwatch to move its HQ to Zurich, right next to all those stacks of sweet chocolate and even sweeter untraceable bank accounts. But it had been so easy to look past that—it wasn’t Overwatch that was corrupt, just the puppeteers pulling the strings.

Just like always.

Ah well, it’s not like there’s not corruption even with the UN no longer bedding down in the Big Apple, and at least there were folks in the UN who had been _trying_ to do the right thing. But the world keeps turning, the scum keeps settling.

I lift a few slats on the blinds and peer down onto the street, the drizzle doing little to clean the city. Even nature had long since given up on this place. A lost cause. Maybe St. Jude and St. Nicholas could have a fistfight over who got this city. St. Nick would probably win, if that story about him socking some other priest in the face was true. Now that’s a saint I think I could get behind.

Black umbrellas dot the sidewalks, a few briefcases and newspapers held up against the rain, moving much faster than everyone who had bothered to check the forecast for the day. The hovercars make standing waves in the puddles and gutters that collapse as soon as they pulled away from the curb, soaking pant legs just as well as cars with tires did in the good old days. Makes my smoky office seem downright cozy. It’s at least dry.

I refocus for a moment, catching sight of myself in the glass. Hooded brown eyes, long brown hair, thick brows, cheekbones that half the women in my life would kill for, and a beard that all of the women in my life would kill to get rid of…plus a couple of days growth that I could stand to trim, myself. Even after being rearranged a few times by angry wise guys, all my features still fit together pretty well—Angela made sure my nose was straight after it got broken last time, and she always manages to keep scars off my mug. She sure knows how to keep me pretty.

I drop the blinds back into place and collapse into my leather swivel chair with a sigh, and stare at my office phone for a few minutes. I don’t know what I’m expecting to happen—Lena’s not due back in town for a few days, so who would be trying to solicit jobs and directing phone calls anyway? Better not let her think the office can’t function when she’s gone. She’s a good secretary, smart as a whip, a damn fine P.I. in training—and a pretty face like hers goes a lot farther than a kisser like mine with most of the guys I’m trying to squeeze, but she needs a vacation every now and then.

Me? I’ve got an office full of fine cigars and fine bourbon. This _is_ my vacation.

I hop up and pour myself another glass, neat, sauntering back to my desk with my steel thumb hooked into the pocket of my jacket. It burns like rage going down, the lingering taste of lying in a sunny field full of wild strawberries on an early summer day left tickling my tongue. Gonna have to make this my last glass, though, unless I want to sleep on the couch in my office again. I can just see Lena, coming back early because her ‘drunk boss’ sense was tingling, staring down at me with that pouty look of hers as she pries my glass from my hand and swaps it for coffee and aspirin.

I kick my boots up on the desk, silver spurs barely missing the edge of the hardwood as I continue to sip at my glass, savoring the sweet spice burning in my sinuses. The bottom of my glass peers up at me, begs to be covered again with molten gold…

Oh no, darlin’, this has to be my last one tonight. Tomorrow, baby, tomorrow. Don’t tempt me, I’ve gotta be good.

I swivel in my chair slightly, giving the rest of my bottle a side-eye. A drawn breath and I’m standing again, skirting around my desk. I’m halfway back to my liquor cabinet when I hear a knock at my outer office door.

Damn. Nobody comes up to a 20th story private eye’s office on a rainy night unless they’ve got problems. I set my glass back down on my desk and push open the inside door, my eyes narrowed at the shadow out in the hall. It only slightly obscures the ‘Jesse McCree, Private Investigator’ backward text on the frosted glass.

“Door’s open,” I call, carefully adjusting my accent. ‘Nobody wants a PI who sounds like some country hick,’ I’d been told back in the day, ‘Unless you wanna work in San Antonio, kid, pack it in.’

The door handle turns, and I rest my hand on my hip, just above the grip of my pistol. The face that greets me on the other side of the door isn’t what I expected, but I wouldn’t kick it out of bed.

It’s attached to a man—a handsome man, no doubt about that. He’s got a deathly serious look to him; a little hollow to his cheeks, a strong jaw, and eyes with a hurricane brewing in them. His beard is impeccably trimmed and makes mine look like a haggard old mountain man’s in comparison, but Lord have mercy, his hair. Ink black, save for the gray at his temples—stress-induced, no doubt, given the health and vigor that seemed to fill his every step—and down to his shoulders like a smooth, soft waterfall. His suit looks like it had a few more zeroes on the end of the price than mine, and it’s tailored to fit his body like a glove. Like the gloves he’s wearing at this very moment.

What, is he here to do a hit or something?

“Mr. McCree, I presume?” the man says, his voice husky and low. There’s a roughness to it that suggests authority hard-won.

“Yes,” I reply, searching him for any sudden movements. But there is nothing—he holds incredibly still, commanding his half of the room. His own eyes rake over my figure, probably giving me the same evaluation I gave him, but his face gives nothing away.

“I need your help, Mr. McCree,” he says after a long moment, his rigid stance disengaging as he finally takes a step inside. He moves like water, like smoke.

I gesture him into my inner office and step inside, subtly palming my glass off the desk.

“Can I get you a drink? A smoke?” I offer, miming pulling two glasses from my liquor cabinet.

“A drink is fine,” my guest answers, sitting across from my desk like a kingpin, at rest but never truly relaxed. “On the rocks.”

“If you like,” I say, dropping a few ice cubes in the clean glass and pouring a splash of bourbon in each. I slide his glass across my desk before taking my seat. He has withdrawn something that looks like a cross between a cigarette holder and a pipe from his inside pocket and is rolling a pinch of very finely shredded tobacco into a ball in his palm.

“Do you have a match?” he asks, carefully packing the little ball into the bowl of his long pipe.

“‘Course,” I reply, pulling open the top drawer of my desk and setting a box of long wooden cigar matches between us. No need to make him smoke alone. I reach for what’s left of my cigar from earlier in the evening, cutting it back a bit before toasting the new end. Soon, my office is fragrant with sweet tobacco again, not that the smell ever really seems to leave—to Lena’s chagrin, of course.

“I’m not overly fond of pleasantries,” the man says after a few oddly comfortable moments of silence.

“You could at least give me your name before cutting to the chase,” I say, peering through the veil of smoke.

“My name is Hanzo Shimada,” he says, leaning back in his seat and taking a small draw from his pipe. “I’m wanted for murdering my brother.”

“Well, it was nice meeting you, Mr. Shimada, the door is right behind you,” I say, rising from my seat and gesturing toward the door with my cigar.

“Don’t you want to hear about how he _isn’t_ dead?” Mr. Shimada chuckles, crossing his legs and smirking up at me. I pause and lower myself back into my chair. I’ve heard ‘I was framed’ plenty of times, but framed for the death of a man who isn’t dead?

“Sure, I’ve got time for a story,” I say, savoring the taste of my cigar.

“My family is Yakuza,” he begins, and I suppress the urge to point him to the door again. Hell, the whole point of P.I.s is that folks come to us when they can’t go to the cops, gangsters included. “After my father’s death, I was ordered to bring my brother in line…and when I couldn’t, I was ordered to kill him.”

“So you got him out of there instead?”

“…More or less,” Mr. Shimada agrees after a moment of consideration, “Needless to say, I didn’t kill him—but not for lack of trying. In the end, however, I couldn’t finish the job. Not Genji…” He pauses for a moment, and dare I say it, a bit of true emotion overtakes him. How touching. His gaze falls to the smoldering end of his pipe, and he gazes into it with solemnity. “He may have been wayward, but…he was my father’s favorite.”

“Sounds like motive to me,” I remark, sipping from my glass.

“Hence why, when the clan discovered that Genji was still alive, they made sure his ‘death’ was widely publicized. I would be the prime suspect, as soon as a few family members and associates of my father told the press that Genji was the favorite son.” He pauses again and sighs, considering the glass in front of him and watching a slight, filmy pattern dance across the surface of the bourbon as his ice melts. “Truth be told…Genji was my favorite, as well. We were happy, just he and my father and I. And yet, I tried to kill him. I tried to be loyal to the clan. Even after I spared him, helped him escape, I went to the clan with…‘proof’ of his death. Proof they then used against me.”

“I’ll thank you for not telling me what this ‘proof’ was,” I say, leaning back in my seat.

“Of course. It _was_ a gruesome scene. But when they discovered my deception, they sent assassins after me. I suppose they thought that I had gone soft, not killing Genji. They were sorely mistaken.” Ah, there it is—he’s still a killer, it’s just not fratricide.

Well, you want to make an omelet, you gotta break some heads, right?

“So that brings us to now, I assume?” I ask, tapping the ash of my cigar.

“Yes. I made sure Genji was able to safely escape Japan after…what I did to him. I made sure he had money, took what I had skimmed, and disappeared onto the ferry to Busan. My family wouldn’t pursue through another Yakuza clan’s territory,” he smirks. “It bought me a moment to plan my next move. A moment to bring me here. To you.”

“I’m flattered,” I sigh, puffing at my cigar. “You’ve got quite a tale of woe, there, very gripping. Sounds like the start to a great novel. And why did you bring this trouble to me?”

“I need protection.”

“Hire a bodyguard.”

“I don’t need muscle,” Mr. Shimada scoffs. “I assure you, I can guard my own body. It is extra _eyes_ that I need. Contacts in this country. Safe houses. An ‘ear to the ground’, as they say, yes? Having left my clan in a rather dramatic fashion, I no longer have access to these things. But a Private Investigator…” he trails off, giving me a devilish smirk. It’s a dangerous, magnetic, coyote-like smile. I can’t trust a smile like that. “I need someone who can find out who is coming after me. I need information to keep things as…clean as possible.”

“Glad to see you’re concerned with cleanliness now,” I remark, standing and skirting around my desk. I’m moving toward the door, hoping to drop a hint. “I’m still not quite sure why you think I should take this case—why you think it’s a case at all—why you think I should trust you as far as I can throw you.”

“If you want proof that my brother lives, I am sure you can ask at the local Shambali temple for a message to be sent to him in Nepal,” Mr. Shimada begins, his tone growing more serious as he, too, stands. “If you want proof that I am in danger, I invite you to simply observe my hotel room in the building across the way,” he continues, gesturing to the window, “Surely, someone has come and tried to attack me there by now. If you want to see how trustworthy I am,” he purrs, reaching out and running his gloved fingertips down my bicep, “…I believe you could throw me quite far, if I let you.”

“Don’t tempt me.”

“Haven’t I already?”

I sigh. I’m not about to let him tie me up with pretty words and language tricks. He reaches into his pocket and withdraws a crisp $100 bill, tucking it into my pocket.

“I will give you this—about an hour’s rate, yes? To go across the street and investigate my hotel room. Investigate _me_ if you so desire—confirm that my story is true. I am happy to wait for you to perform your due diligence if it assures that I can retain your services.”

I frown slightly, glancing out the window before letting my fingers run over the C-note in my pocket.

“…Give me your hotel room key, and wait here. I’ll get the lights, lock the doors, make it look like I’m done for the night and I’ll check out your room. Sound good?”

“It sounds like a good start,” Mr. Shimada says, a coy smile on his lips. He hands me a keycard before returning to his chair, sipping his drink again. “Room 3108. I’ll be waiting here for you, Mr. McCree. I’ll reimburse you for your liquor,” he adds, crossing his long legs again and settling back in his seat, smirking up at me like some sort of siren.

“I’ll hold you to that,” I grumble, taking my hat and oilskin duster coat from the rack and pulling them on. A low chuckle from across the room catches my attention. “What?”

“You look like…” Mr. Shimada chuckles, raising a gloved hand to cover the smile tugging at his thin lips, “…Sukiyaki Western Django.” I frown—I know all three words, of course, but in that order, they’re totally meaningless to me. Whatever.

I flick the lights off and my gaze lingers on Mr. Shimada for a moment, the end of his long pipe glowing in the hazy dark like a will-o’-the-wisp.

I’ve got a job to do. I’m on the clock, now.

I lock up the office and reach into my pocket for my cell, dialing a number I know by heart. A loud screeching tone greets me.

“We’re sorry. The number you have dialed is disconnected or is no longer in service.”

I wait it out as the message repeats again, this time _en Español_. After a few moments, the line connects.

“Hola.”

“You better’ve kept me waitin’ fer a good reason, Sombra,” I mutter into the phone. I’ve never bothered trying to hide my accent with her, and I figure I probably never will—she has enough fun with my ‘professional voice’ on lines she’s tapped or video feeds she’s hacked.

“Oh, you know, just girl things,” she replies, “What do you need, amigo?”

“Some information on a Shambali monk. Human, name’s ‘Genji Shimada’.”

“Sure. What do you want to know about him?”

“Well, if he’s alive, first off,” I say. “I got a man in my office says he helped him fake his death an’ snuck ‘im into Nepal.”

“Hmm, hacking Omnic systems is a bit tough—it might cost you,” she replies, a teasing tone in her voice.

“I got $100 in my pocket,” I say, “Find out if this guy’s alive, an’ it’ll be _real_ happy t’ see you.”

“Psh, that’s only, what, an hour’s pay?”

“You can do it in an hour.”

Silence.

“Damnit, you’re right, I can,” she huffs. “I’ll let you know what I turn up.”

“Thanks, yer a peach,” I say, hanging up and leaning against the back wall of the elevator, turning my collar up as I stroll through the lobby.

The rain seems a lot heavier from the street, a constant drumroll on the brim of my hat. My cigar smoke doesn’t last long in the downpour, the glowing foot a small comfort in the cold and damp. Detritus washes along the gutters as I make my way across the street, the car horns a block away and the rumble of the metro beneath my boots an atonal paean to modernity.

“Welcome,” the Omnic bellhop says, the door sliding open and welcoming me into a well-lit lobby, filled with rich mahogany and luxurious brocade. Damn, so much luxury just across the street from my dingy little place… Of course, they probably wouldn’t let me into the swanky bar here in the first place, not that I’d want to give them upwards of $30 for a whiskey anyway, no matter _how_ round the ice cubes are.

Everyone drips a little on their way across the marble floor, tiny gilded scrubber bots darting out like well-groomed but ill-behaved Malteses and Teacup Poodles to lap up the rainwater and keep anyone from slipping and falling into a $50 million negligence and personal injury lawsuit. I’ve got a small army of them following me across the lobby, wiping up my mess as I scan the card key at the elevator bank.

“Welcome back, Mr. Tachibana,” a smooth voice announces as the doors slide open. The scrubber bots gaze almost longingly at me as the doors begin to ease shut, before scattering back across the lobby floor, drawing loud yaps from the Pugs and Shih Tzus in various Hermés and Prada purses.

“What floor, sir?” the elevator attendant inside asks, not hesitating for a moment even as he takes in my gleaming spurs and atypical headgear.

“Thirty-one,” I reply, trying to keep my tone pleasant. Act like you belong, Jesse.

“Very well, sir.”

After 15 very uncomfortable seconds, I hand him a wrinkled twenty and step off the elevator; I can practically feel his contempt, the force of his glare burning into my back.

Room 3108’s door doesn’t look forced, but a professional would have a key anyway. I hit redial on my phone.

“Jeez, can’t you wait ten minutes for me to hack something on the other side of the planet?” Sombra huffs.

“Got somethin’ a little closer to home. Can y’ tell me if the door to Room 3108 at the Paragon has been opened with a service key lately?”

“Yyyyyes, _way_ outside of housekeeping hours,” she says.

“How outside we talkin’?”

“Like, within the last 30 minutes. Be careful, vaquero, someone might be waiting for you.”

“I hear ya,” I say, “There any security inside you can tap into?”

“Un momento…I’m reading two heat signatures inside. I guess that’s two more than are supposed to be there, right?”

“Yup. Any other info you got?”

“No, it’s quiet and dark. A trap, for sure,” she says.

“Well sheeyit. I wanted t’ see the inside of a fancy five-star hotel suite.”

“I can hack the card reader for you sometime. Let’s throw a party on the hotel’s dime, eh?”

“Sounds like a plan,” I chuckle, heading back for the door. “Gonna head back across the street, see if’n I can spot anything through the windows. Oh, ‘fore I letcha go again, if anything happens t’ me, it was Yakuza. Shimada family. Let Lena know an’ make sure ever’thing’s squared away fer her.”

“Jeez, so dramatic,” Sombra says. I can hear her roll her eyes. It isn’t the first time I’ve given her this little speech. “Wait, you’re telling me to look up a Shimada, no?”

“That’s right. Got a couple’a fugitives on my hands. Folks what can’t go t’ the cops come t’ folks like me.”

“Ah, my hero,” she teases.

I take the stairs back down to the lobby—I can’t afford to keep tipping the elevator stewards. Not unless I take Mr. Shimada on as a client. Besides, he’s paying me for an hour’s work, and his stalkers are holed up in his hotel room waiting; what’s _my_ hurry? Hell, I probably _could_ stop off at the bar, and just bill the whiskey as a business expense.

Naw, honey, I gotta be good. Don’t tempt me…I’ve got plenty of liquor back at the office, after all.

The rain shows no signs of letting up as I venture back into the evening chill, my fingers shoved in my coat pockets to stave off the cold in my flesh hand. I keep my eyes on the sidewalk as I make the jaunt across the street, steering clear of the puddles and gutters. The over-under on me spending the night in my office already isn’t great—the last thing I need is to do it with soaked pants.

My phone buzzes in my pocket while I wait for the elevator—a junk text to the untrained eye.

A loan for $300 has been approved!  
Log in to receive benefits from  
I-Need-Kash.com!  
Vicki, I-Need-Kash.com  
Enter ‘STOP’ to end messages.

Perfect. Looks like Mr. Shimada’s story checks out…at least up until this point.

The elevator ride back up to my office is uneventful, though the possibility of some assassin waiting behind a potted plant creeps up my back with cold, prickling anxious claws. It digs into me, the desire to look over my shoulder strong, the fear of what I might see there even stronger. Only once my office door is locked behind me, the warm dark and fragrant tobacco smoke wrapping me up in its carcinogenic embrace do I relax even slightly.

“Mr. Shimada?” I call, keeping my hand close to my holster just in case I don’t like what I see when I step into my inner office.

True to his word, Mr. Shimada is right where I left him, cool as a cucumber as he drinks my liquor and reclines in my chair.

“What is your professional opinion, Mr. McCree?” Mr. Shimada asks, his voice still in the realm of a dusky purr. It’s entirely too tempting—enjoyable, but not appreciated.

“I’ve been able to confirm a few of your claims,” I reply, striding over to my desk and snatching up my bottle of bourbon.

“Will you take my case?” he asks, blowing smoke in an almost delicate way.

“It’s not a case,” I sigh, “I’m barely investigating anything. It’s a contract, is what it is.”

“Very well, will you take my contract?”

“…Thousand a day, plus expenses,” I say, glancing down at my mostly depleted bottle. Yeah. _Expenses._

“Very well,” he replies, unfolding those legs of his and rising through the smoke.

“And you’ll need a cover story,” I add. After a moment’s consideration, I smirk. “Congratulations, you’re hired, Mr. Shimada.”

“Hired?” he repeats, scoffing.

“Of course. You’ll be my newest assistant,” I grin, swigging the last mouthful straight from the bottle.

“Assistant!” he cries, “And what could you possibly need assistance with, Mr. McCree? Aside from drinking all of this alcohol.”

“My regular assistant is out of the country at the moment, and coffee don’t make itself,” I smirk, strolling over to the liquor cabinet and setting the empty bottle down.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _art by[hiddeninthunder](http://hiddeninthunder.tumblr.com)_


	2. Special Report

I stumble off the bus with my new ‘employee’ in tow, a little too much alcohol in my system following a hard evening of vacationing. Mr. Shimada doesn’t look pleased with the rain or with the idea of sleeping on my hide-a-bed, but it’s preferable to being assassinated.

And there’s more booze in my kitchen.

“We can get yer stuff from yer hotel t’morrow, I reckon,” I muse, unlocking the door as smoothly as I possibly can and ushering him inside. “Fer now, should be safe here.”

My place is pretty spartan—most of my time is spent at the office or on the job, after all, and I don’t exactly make a habit of entertaining. Given how much of my time I spend sleeping in my office, in motels, or in Lena’s living room, this is practically a safe house now.

“And if it’s not?” Mr. Shimada asks, his thick brow quirking up.

“There’s a gun in ev’ry room.”

“Ah, yes…America,” Mr. Shimada smirks, sitting on my couch a bit more heavily than a man as prim and proper as he ought.

“Need a nightcap?” I ask, hoping the sway to my steps just comes off as my natural swagger.

“…Do you have any more of that bourbon?” he ventures, his voice even more sultry after so much booze. Well, ‘one more’ is the opposite of a nightcap, but I won’t argue.

“Honey, y’ain’t gotta sweet-talk me into drinkin’ more of my bourbon,” I call back, “After all, I’m billing you for it,” I add under my breath with a smirk, a couple of glasses clinking together under my metal fingers. My arm’s the only sober part of me at this point, its unaddled independent processor and servos keeping my touch—and my pours—light. It’s still a bit tough getting it to the right place at the right time, though, if taking two tries to grab the bottle is anything to go by.

I head back into the living room only to find my newest employee slumped against the arm of my couch, his tie loosened a bit for comfort and his face finally relaxed. Even now, he still looks so serious. ‘Resting bitch face’, Sombra calls it—at least when it’s _my_ face. Only the slight sound of a snore keeps me from making sure he wasn’t knocked off while my back was turned.

His glass makes its way onto the coffee table before I pull the obnoxious knit throw from the back of the couch and drape it over my guest, hoping he’s not allergic to wool. Given the quality of his suits, it’s unlikely.

Looks like his nightcap will be hair of the dog, instead.

* * *

The knock on my door in the morning…afternoon? Whatever time it is, the knock feels like a jackhammer against my skull.

“McCree?” Damn, he sounds rough. “Aspirin. Where?”

“Bathroom,” I call back, though it comes out more like ‘brrfrrmmmmnnngh’, which is about what I feel like at the moment. Gotta stop taking my nights so hard, I’m not exactly a young man anymore.

I’m slow to get out of bed, glad for the first time in a while that I fell asleep in my clothes from yesterday. Frankly, I’m not sure I could bring myself to get dressed in this state. Shuffling into the kitchen, I spare a glance up to the clock on my way to the coffee pot. Damn, it’s 2:30 and I still feel this bad. By 2:37 I can’t wait anymore and pour myself a fresh cup of joe, and after a moment’s consideration, pull out another mug for Hanzo. It’s supposed to be his job to make the coffee now, but hell, it’s Sunday—he can have the day off.

“Coffee’s done,” I call, setting the mug down on the flimsy table in my kitchen and heading to the bathroom in search of the promised aspirin. I choke a few down and shield my eyes on my way back out into the house, unwilling to greet even the cool gloom of the afternoon through a rain shower. The soft, muffled sound of the vidcaster in the living room at least gives me a hint as to where my newest employee has retreated to.

A screeching, grating tone—when I’m not hungover, it’s a cutesy tune from one of Lena’s favorite TV shows—wails like a siren in my pocket.

“Christ,” I mutter, my steel hand slipping with ease into my pants pocket and withdrawing the screaming menace. “McCree speaking,” I mumble. The cacophony on the other end isn’t much better than the shrill ringtone. I can only pick out a few words here and there, and a lot of them aren’t in her voice.

“— _Ohmygodhe’sbeenshot_ —”

“Lena? That you? Say that again, sugar.”

“— _He’sbeenSHOT_ — _”_

“Who? Who’s been shot?” After a second, the garbled shrieks on the other end sink into the background. Lena’s still breathing pretty heavily, though, like she ran a marathon—and that’s even considering what a runner she is.

“McCree, sir, it’s Mondatta—”

“Somebody shot Robo-Gandhi?”

“I wish you wouldn’t use that term, sir, but yes,” she pants, “I saw everything, sir, I was at the peace rally and—”

“Whoa there, slow down a sec, gotta get this down,” I say, flicking my left wrist and activate the totally legal one-party consent compliant mic in my arm before putting her on speaker. “Alright, whadjya see?”

“Okay, okay, I was in the crowd and I noticed something strange with the private security. Not, like, suspicious, but there was something going on.”

“What did you notice?”

“They were looking to the roof instead of the crowd.”

“Alright, what next?”

“I know you’re not going to like it, sir, but I went up to the roof myself to see what’s what.”

“Lena—”

“You weren’t there to do it, sir! _Somebody_ had to go! Besides, I’ve got combat training—”

“You ain’t gotta argue yer case with me just now,” I sigh, holding the phone as far away from my throbbing head as I can. “Just…what happened next?”

“Well, I found guards, sir. Incapacitated—I knew I was close so I kept looking and looking and…” she trails off. “You’re going to be mad at me again, sir.”

“Don’t go changin’ the story just to keep me happy. What did you see?”

“It’s not so much what I _saw_ as what…I… _did_ …”

“Did you engage the shooter?”

“…Yes sir.”

“Are you hurt?”

“I’ll be fine, sir.”

“Damnit, Lena, _are you hurt?_ ” I ask with a bit more anger in my tone than is really warranted when asking about somebody’s health.

“I’m not shot,” she evades. “I’ve got some bumps and bruises—there are people here hurt way worse than me—oh God, it still looks really bad out there…”

“Lena, focus. Alright, so you engaged the shooter,” I say, suddenly aware of a pair of eyes watching me from the living room. I look over my shoulder and see Mr. Shimada, much more alert than he had been before. I suppose an assassination will sober you up pretty quickly. “Then what happened?”

“Well…a lot of it is a blur at that point,” she says, not clarifying if she meant literally or figuratively; I can only imagine what things must look like, using that chronal accelerator of hers. She probably doesn’t want to talk about old Overwatch tech much on tape, either—can’t say I blame her. We don’t exactly advertise our former associations. Doubly so for me.

“Is there anything at all you can give me after you engaged the shooter?”

“A lot of it will have to be off the record, sir.”

“Alright, fine, fine, jes’ give me what you’ve got.”

“I… _miiight_ have been responsible for an explosion.”

“ _Lena_ —”

“I was doing my best!”

“Did you get eyes on the shooter?”

“Yes, sir—a woman. French. Tall, with some sort of enhancements—not sure what, but I’ve never seen anyone make shots like that ‘cept you and Captain Amari, sir—she’s gotta have a cybernetic eye, too.”

“Now, now, let’s not go jumping to conclusions quite yet.”

“If you saw her shoot, sir, you wouldn’t think it was jumping very far.”

“Do you have anything else?”

“No…she was picked up on the roof by some sort of transport, but I couldn’t see any markings or insignia, either on the ship or her.”

“Could you identify the ship?”

“The fuselage was heavily modified, sir—beyond any identifiable make or model. I can’t tell you anything more except it was black and red.”

“Think you could you pick the shooter out of a line-up?”

“No question, sir.”

I glance back at Mr. Shimada and give a slight shrug. “You gone to the cops there with this yet?”

“The situation is still developing on the ground, here—I’ll try to get to a PC once things have been contained.”

“Alright, what’s it look like out there?”

“It’s…it’s bad, sir,” she murmurs, her voice wavering for the first time in a while.

“You get yerself somewhere safe, y’ hear? Get yer statement to the cops, an’ come home safe.”

“I…I’ll do my best, sir, but if I’m a primary witness, I don’t think they’ll want me leaving the country.”

Ah. Shit. That does complicate things a bit, doesn’t it? On my end, anyway.

“Good thing I just hired a temp,” I remark, looking back at Mr. Shimada again. His expression isn’t quite what I’d been expecting; his haughtiness mixed with the indignity of a hangover is gone, replaced with very serious concern and attention. “Listen, kid, don’t you worry ‘bout me none. I know it’s a hairy situation right about now, but consider this your big break—you were a first-hand witness to the crime of the decade, an’ they’re gonna need your help to crack this case, lock that sniper up and throw away the key. I’ve got faith in you, Lena, go crack the case. Make me proud.”

“You’ve got it, sir!” she chirps, though it sounds forced. Poor kid…she’s always been pretty touchy-feely when it comes to Omnic rights and such. Kids usually are, they don’t remember what the robots used to be like. I kind of envy them. But still, even for an orphan of the Crisis like me, I wouldn’t want to see one of the good ones get gunned down in the middle of a peace rally—who could hate Omnics enough to kill the robo-Pope?

I sigh and hang up the phone, deactivating the recorder in my arm.

“Mondatta has been killed?”

I look up at Mr. Shimada, who looks almost queasy at the news.

“Yeah. You know much about him?” I ask, moving into the living room.

“Much,” Mr. Shimada says, following me rather closely. “Tekhartha Mondatta is the founder of the Shambali Order in Nepal. Their teaching has had a profound impact on Omnics and Omnic rights in Japan.”

“Glad t’ hear it,” I remark, taking a seat on the couch and flicking the vidcaster over to the BBC for any updates.

“— _We’re telling you what we know as we know it, but we are receiving reports of a terrorist attack in King’s Row, London…we will be bringing all BBC broadcasts to a special report momentarily, please stay tuned…”_

Mr. Shimada crosses the room, standing in front of me for a moment before dropping to my side on the couch, his dark eyes fixed on me.

“Mr. McCree, we have to do something.”

“What’s this ‘we’ yer talkin’ about?” I ask, looking over at him for a moment.

“The Shambali monks took my brother in after…after what I did to him,” Mr. Shimada says, his voice growing strained, but his gaze focused. “I owe them a great debt for taking on the burden.”

“ _Breaking news coming from the streets of King’s Row, London, we have reports of an assassination attempt against the leader of the Shambali Order and noted Omnic Rights leader, Tekhartha Mondatta. A peace rally and pro-Omnic demonstration was being held there today; Metropolitan police said earlier in the day that there were threats made against the organizers, but none were deemed credible enough to warrant cancellation of the event. We have initial reports of some sort of explosion just prior to the apparently fatal shots being fired—no word yet on the number of shooters or targets, let me repeat that, there has been no confirmation on the number of shooters…”_

“Mr. Mc—Jesse,” he continues, grasping my steel hand without any apprehension. “Please…we must help find this monster. We already know more than the police on the ground—if we can help, then we _must_.”

“We ‘must’, huh?” I ask, raising a brow. “‘Fraid I don’t take work based purely on moral imperatives. Just one thing. Well, maybe two things,” I reply. Damnit, but ‘moral imperative’ _is_ the second thing. Hell, it even makes up for quite a bit of the first thing if the job is right. Mr. Shimada sucks in an impatient breath through his nose, his eyes sliding shut.

“How much?”

“Beg yer pardon?”

“How much more will it cost to hire you to aid the investigation into Mondatta’s assassination?” he asks, his expression completely serious—none of the sly seduction he employed last night to secure my service. Just desperation. A plea.

I chew my lip for a moment and glance back at the chopper footage from King’s Row, an uncomfortable surge of familiarity seizing my gut at the chaos. Been a long damn time since I’ve been to London—it was Omnic trouble back then, too…

“… _with counter demonstrations protesting such a message at the site of the Null Sector attack on London almost seven years ago. There is no confirmation yet that this attack is connected to any of the counter-demonstrators, but we are beginning to get reports from around the London boroughs as news spreads that the counter-demonstrators are turning violent—we currently have BBC correspondent Elizabeth Smith on the line from Lambeth…”_

“…You know my hourly rate,” I reply.


	3. King's Row

I don’t pack much—I usually travel light, and who knows how long we’ll even be on the ground in London. A few shirts, some underwear, a spare pair of socks… I tuck my flask in my pocket and hesitate with my gun. I’d feel more naked without that than without even my hat, but getting it into England might be problematic.

“Mr. McCree?”

I turn, peering over my shoulder at my soon-to-be traveling companion. “Whut?”

“If we are to be traveling, do you think we could make an attempt at entering my hotel room first? I’m afraid even you have more luggage than me at the moment,” Mr. Shimada says, his arms crossed as he looks at my overnight bag.

“…I suppose we could swing by an’ see how things go,” I say, making the decision about my gun and slipping it into its holster. “We get yer suitcase, you carry my gun in it,” I offer. “I ain’t never been to King’s Row without my gun, and given the current situation, I don’t plan on breaking tradition.”

“Understandable,” Mr. Shimada nods, “I’m not sure I would want you trying to protect me in such a situation without arms…or at least a lasso,” he smirks, retreating from the doorway. “I am ready to depart when you are.”

“Go order us a cab,” I call, “We can pick up my truck from the parking garage an’ head to the airport from there.”

“A truck…why am I surprised?” Mr. Shimada scoffs, his voice clearly audible down the hall.

* * *

The rain is lighter today; it sounds more like brushes on the drum than sticks as it strikes the rim of my hat, the Omnic bellhop from last night still standing at attention and acting no different than yesterday. Maybe he hasn’t heard the news yet. Or maybe he cares as much about Mondatta as I do about the Dalai Lama. I don’t keep up on schisms in religions and whatnot.

The scrubber bots are just as active as they were last night, but given the hour, there’s less traffic for them to clean up after. I can see them quivering with anticipation as we come through the door, so much like those little yappy teacup dogs, darting out to wipe the floor clean after us as we return to the elevator.

“Welcome back, Mr. Tachibana,” the elevator calls as we step inside. The doors almost close on a too-eager scrubber bot, which zips out at the last moment leaving a half-squeegeed puddle by my left boot.

“What floor, sirs?”

“Thirty-one,” Hanzo instructs, his tone filled with casual boredom.

“As you wish.”

The ride is just as awkward and uncomfortable as the one I took last night, and I make sure I’m the first one off the elevator to save myself the tip.

“I must say, Mr. Shimada, it’s been a while since I’ve been invited up to somebody’s hotel room,” I smirk, swaggering down the hallway.

“Somehow, I am not surprised.”

“Damn, you can cut me to the quick, can’t you?”

“My head still hurts, no thanks to your liquor.”

“We’re gonna have plenty of time to sleep it off on the plane,” I say, slipping my fingers around the grip of my pistol as Mr. Shimada swipes the card key and cautiously opens his door.

“Let us gather my bags and leave as quickly as possible,” Mr. Shimada says, his stance stiff as he scans the sitting room. “I imagine the men following me will not be pleased when they see I’ve slipped through their grasp once again.”

“I’ll bet,” I reply, drawing my gun as soon as I’m inside the door. I haven’t checked in with Sombra about who might be hiding in here, after all.

“How long do you think we will be in London?” Mr. Shimada asks, lifting his suitcase from the rack where it had been laid by the porters.

“Hard to say,” I say, trying to keep my voice down; for all I know, there are bugs in here by now. Or motion sensors, or some new additions to the existing security circuits… “Anything else you need?”

“I think I can do without my shaving kit for the moment,” Mr. Shimada smirks, “I may need to visit a barber when we land, though.”

“I’m sure your first paycheck’ll cover it,” I remark, pulling the door open. The doorway is filled for a moment with a broad man, pulled off-balance by the sudden movement of the door.

“ _Shimatta!_ ” Mr. Shimada snaps, dropping the suitcase and leaping to the side, his fists raised. The man plants a foot to regain his balance, and Mr. Shimada’s foot whips out at his knee, crashing into him with a blunt thump. My fist arcs up, the crunch of tooth and bone against the steel of my fist reaching my ears like an echo. Those years on the streets, then those years in the shadows have taken care of me so far, but sometimes, it still scares me a little bit what my bare hands are capable of.

“Get yer shit, we’re _gone_ ,” I snap, leaping over the crumpled form of the man in the entryway. I hear the heavy _thunk_ of Mr. Shimada’s suitcase striking the man on the ground on its way out of the hotel room, and then nothing but the nimble footfalls of my client behind me. I turn down the hall for the service elevator, only to see two more thugs—similarly dressed to our friend from the room. “Shit!”

A shot rings out—two—three, all far wide of their target as I duck back around the corner. “Backbackbackback!” I yell, the smooth soles of my boots sliding across the mirror-polished tile. I hear another heavy _thwack_ and a cry of absolute agony and turn in time to see Mr. Shimada complete what looked to have been a very impressive golf swing—albeit with a heavy suitcase rather than a nine iron.

We don’t have time for skirmishes, though, and I’m sure as hell not going to let him bring a suitcase to a gunfight. I grab Mr. Shimada by the collar of his very fine suit—I’m sure it can handle the strain—and drag him after me. “Stairs!”

The doors to the emergency stairwell are heavy—probably heavy enough to take a bullet or two from a handgun while we try to find a nice floor to switch to, preferably one with a little less gunplay. I push Mr. Shimada in front of me and usher him down, my eye on the door behind us as we wind down a few flights.

The slam of the door echoes up and down the stairwell; the 29th floor will have to do. I fire a round into the air, the crack of Peacekeeper reverberating like a cannon off the sickly yellow walls and disguising the sound of our escape. It’s not like I have a chance to barricade the door or anything, we’ll just have to hoof it to the elevator and pretend that being out of breath and covered in gunpowder residue is the norm in a joint like this.

The elevator attendant is nonplussed—but only for a second. “What floor, sirs?”

“Ground floor, if ya please,” I pant, leaning hard into the corner of the elevator. It takes me a moment before I notice on a real conscious level that I’m still holding Peacekeeper in a high ready position. “Uh, pardon me,” I add, tipping my hat but not lowering my gun. Not until the doors are shut—and even then, I just drop to low ready.

“Damn, I got blood on my suitcase,” Mr. Shimada sighs, inspecting the damage. “Perhaps I can clean it before we reach the airport…?”

“I wouldn’t worry ‘bout it too much—we got bigger fish t’ fry,” I say, my accent leaking out. “How many of those goons you figure are ‘round here?”

“I couldn’t say,” Mr. Shimada shrugs, “But now you see the need for my protection.”

“Yeah, I got it,” I reply, tucking my revolver away as we near the ground floor, though my hand stays in my coat. After all, there’s no way of knowing how many guns might be waiting for us in the lobby at this point.

As the doors open, it looks like the answer to my question is ‘none’. Mr. Shimada strolls calmly over to the desk, depositing his card key.

“I’ll be checking out early—I’ve had urgent business in Seattle come up, and I must leave immediately,” he says, lying as smoothly as I do.

“Of course, thank you for your stay Mr. Tachibana, and we hope you’ll remember the Paragon on your next visit to New York City,” the woman behind the desk smiles.

“Seattle?” I mutter once we’re on the street.

“It’s the only place rainier than here,” Mr. Shimada smirks.

* * *

It’s shockingly easy to get old Peacekeeper into England in under 5 hours, if you know the route to take, the right things to declare, and the order to tell your lies. Fly in a fancy transatlantic supersonic jet to Belfast for a ‘shooting competition’, get on the cheapest flight from Belfast to London as a ‘private security guard’, and finally roll into London as what I am—a detective, more or less. I like to keep my legit credentials and a showy dupe badge for occasions just like this; can you believe they used to just let you walk into a jewelry store and buy any shield you want?

“Detective McCree, here to lend a hand on the investigation,” I say, flashing my shiny at the first cop I find at King’s Row—or rather, the first cop who finds me. They aren’t too partial to having strangers in broad-brimmed hats poke around, after all.

“No unauthorized personnel beyond this point, sir,” the officer says, ignoring my vaguely bullshit shield.

“Ah, pardon me, but I’m a detective—I’m authorized,” I repeat.

“You come down from Scotland Yard?” he asks, as if my accent doesn’t give away the fact that I’m from much farther away than Scotland Yard.

“No, sir.”

“Then you’re unauthorized.”

“Look here, partner, I’ve already got one of my folks on the other side of this here tape,” I say, my accent reduction wearing as thin as my patience. “I’m here to help on this investigation an’ if word gets back to yer folks that you’ve been hamperin’ investigation efforts—”

“Oi, Davies, is that the American?”

“Yeah, reckon we’ve got the good, the bad and the ugly here,” my new friend on the other side of the police tape remarks as if I’m not right there to hear his _incredibly witty_ remark about my headgear.

“He really ought not speak so ill of himself,” Mr. Shimada mutters in my ear, and I feel my spirits lift just the tiniest bit. Man’s got a knack for timing, I’ll give him that.

“I’ll handle this,” the other officer says. She’s slender and walks with confidence, flicking the police tape up over her head in a smooth motion.

“Detective McCree, ma’am,” I say, tipping my hat. “This is my assistant, Mr. Shimada.”

“Assistant? Has Lena been demoted, then?” she asks, her plush lips quirking. “Don’t make me the bearer of bad news.”

“You must be the esteemed Miss Emily Johnson, then,” I say, tipping my hat a little more and smirking. “You look different in uniform.” With her thick red hair pinned up under her hat and without Lena hovering over her shoulder with stars in her eyes like in the picture from Lena’s lock screen, there’s not much for me to identify her by apart from her freckles and clever eyes. Maybe if I imagine some numbers partially obscuring her forehead and 18 notifications hiding her finely sculpted jaw…

“So I’ve heard,” she laughs, “Lena said you’d get here quick.”

“Yeah, had to pick up a few things ‘fore we hopped on the jet,” I remark. “Speakin’ of Lena, where’s she at?”

“She’s with her parents right now,” Emily says, “Told her to try to get some rest, or at least something to eat before you got here. Not sure if she managed, though…”

“Well, call her in—I want a witness t’ walk me through the scene.”

“Naturally,” Emily says, tapping out a quick text before lifting up the police tape for us. “I’ll be your tour guide for now,” she smiles, though her expression is obviously schooled. “None of the other PCs want to talk much with you—nobody fancies having someone come onto their home turf and try to handle their investigation, you see.”

“Understandable,” Mr. Shimada remarks, “We shall try to be quick and thorough, and leave the local authorities to their investigation.”

“To be honest,” Emily says, drawing close for a moment, “We need all the help we can get. We’re spread awfully thin right now, there are flare-ups of violence all over the city pulling our attention away from the scene…”

“Don’t you worry ‘bout a thing, Miss Johnson,” I say, my flesh-and-blood hand gently squeezing her shoulder, “‘Tween the three of us, I’m sure we can crack this fer y’all.”

“Four.”

“Hm?” I turn, finding a ruffled Mr. Shimada at my back.

“Between the four of us,” he clarifies. “I do not intend to simply fetch coffee and stand idly by while you investigate.”

“Right, right—gotta give me at least 48 hours t’ update my mental checklist of employees,” I say. A burst of light informs me that my other employee has just arrived.

“Did I miss something?” Lena asks, perky as always. I wonder if she _did_ manage to get some sleep in somewhere—maybe she can set her accelerator to rewind over and over to get a full night’s sleep in a few minutes. I make a mental note to ask her a little more about the finer points of her tech later.

“Not a thing,” I smile, pushing my hat back a bit.

“It’s good to see you, sir!” Lena chirps. “And who’s this?” she asks, cocking her head to the side like an overeager songbird.

“Hanzo Shimada, at your service,” Mr. Shimada says, bowing crisply at the waist.

“Our newest assistant.”

“Pleasure to meet you,” Lena grins, holding her hand out for a shake. “Lena Oxton, at _your_ service!” she repeats, throwing her whole arm into the motion of shaking Mr. Shimada’s hand. He smiles a bit at her enthusiasm, and I have to admit, the smile looks miles better on him than his usual smirk—and even that was a good look.

“I figured you’d already be here workin’ the ground,” I say, scratching at my jaw lightly. “Hear they’re a touch short-staffed ‘round here, could use another detective.”

“They are,” Lena sighs, her brows knitting together. “But the bobbies don’t want anything to do with me. Well, present company excluded,” she added, touching Emily’s arm lightly.

“Miss Johnson said the authorities were disinterested in outside help,” Hanzo mused, “How are we to assist or gather our own information if we cannot expect local support?”

“I do most of my work without much support from the authorities,” I remark, shrugging. “‘Sides, we’ve got an inside contact—if I ain’t presumin’ too much of Officer Johnson’s intentions here,” I add, shooting her a winning smile.

“Lena has only told me good things about your office,” Emily smiles, the expression a little more genuine than mine. “I’d be happy to have your help—especially the expertise someone of a…shall we say ‘military background’ might be able to offer. You were a sniper with Overwatch, weren’t you?” she asks, her tone low.

“Somethin’ like that,” I respond. I certainly had sniper training—learned from the best—but it wasn’t exactly my primary MOS. It’s the rest of this scene that I’ve got expertise in. Infiltration, assassination, extraction…sniping is just one element of this big, messy picture.

“Then you’ll probably see things we might miss,” Emily says, gesturing to the eerily empty street in front of the Meridian. “This is where Mondatta was speaking. Lena, why don’t you walk Detective McCree through the scene.”

“Right,” Lena nods, blinking over to the now abandoned podium. “Mondatta was standing here, giving his speech. There were bodyguards on either side keeping the crowd back, and…I think just the one next to Mondatta,” she begins. “Right over there.”

“Alright,” I say, taking up the approximate position she indicates, “Then you said the guards were looking at the rooftops, not the crowd?”

“Yeah, up there,” she says, pointing toward a high bay window. “I looked and the curtains were shut and the lights were out, just like now, but I thought ‘that doesn’t mean there’s not a sniper inside’. Still, would’ve been tough to get in, since they secured the buildings. So that’s when I figured they weren’t looking at the windows, but the rooftops.”

I nod and shift, standing behind the podium and peering around. Whatever angle a sniper was looking for, I’ll be able to see from here, too—just smaller. My eye rakes the building and the surrounding rooftops, and through the second story window, I notice movement. Officers on the rooftop.

“Shit, didn’t matter how much security’s in the building, she’s still able to shoot through the window from up there,” I muse. Must be a damn cocky shot, too—most snipers are. Mr. Shimada hurries to my side, peering up through the windows as well. “Second story window, far left—shootin’ through both windows from the rooftop down the alleyway.”

“You must have quite an eye, Mr. McCree,” he remarks.

“Finest cybernetics Overwatch could provide,” I shrug. “Lotta planning went into findin’ that angle, though—it’s so narrow. How’d you spot it, Lena?”

“I didn’t,” she replies, “I just followed where the guards were looking and assumed a rooftop team over there had the location. I went through this alley,” she says, blinking to a position on the other side of the road and hardly waiting for me to keep up, “And sure as anything, there she was— _hanging upside down_ to get her shot.”

“Ain’t that just like a sniper,” I smirk. “We do love our trick shots…So what next?”

“This is where I engaged, sir,” she says, beckoning me down the alley. Broken glass litters the ground at its exit, and officers are poking around just inside the shattered window on the third floor.

“This ain’t where the final shot came from though,” I remark, looking down the street to my left and watching a few officers fiddle with a laser sight, trying to piece together how the elevation that the bullet came from was even possible without a chopper or a witch’s broom.

“No, sir—for that, we need to get to the roof.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _art by[hiddeninthunder](http://hiddeninthunder.tumblr.com)_


	4. Chalk Outlines

There are almost as many cops in the stairwell as bullet holes. Emily gets us through the front door of the hotel without a hitch, weaving expertly through the investigators as she leads us upstairs.

“Looks like automatic fire,” I remark, “Two weapons?”

“One, sir,” Lena replies, “Some sort of convertible assault rifle. Never seen anything like it—not even in Overwatch’s armory.”

“Neither have we,” Emily adds. “It’s…one reason why some of my colleagues are less willing to listen to Lena’s testimony.”

“Reckon they think I’m making it up,” Lena huffs, blowing a few stray locks of hair from her face.

“Well, y’know I’m listenin’, at least,” I say, doing my best to smooth her ruffled feathers as we approach the rooftop.

“So far we’ve only recovered bullet casings consistent with an assault rifle,” Emily continues, “So the current official position is multiple shooters.”

“Rubbish,” Lena mutters.

I’m not proud of how winded I feel by the time we reach the rooftop—might be time to cut down on the cigars after all.

“Right then, this is where I first made radio contact with Mondatta’s security team,” Lena explains, pointing to the housing for the elevator—which we _didn’t_ take, my lungs remind me—pocked with bullet holes.

“We are still no nearer to the site of the shooting,” Mr. Shimada complains, his breathing not labored in the least.

“Nope—this is where the chase began, though,” Lena explains. “I was here, and the shooter had moved across the lane to that roof there,” she continues, gesturing to where a few officers were dropping labels and snapping photos of the scene. “Now’s the tricky part,” she winks, taking a running leap off the edge of the rooftop and blinking clean across the street. “I’ll wait for you to catch up!”

“Great, more stairs,” I grumble, turning back to the open stairwell door. Mr. Shimada, however, doesn’t follow me. He backs up a few steps before running for the rooftop edge as well. “Wait, Shimada—!”

He leaps with the power of an Olympic long jumper, his body arcing through the air with practiced ease. His fingers catch the edge of the rooftop like he was _born_ taking death leaps from building to building.

Jesus, exactly what kind of client have I taken on here?

“…W-We’d better get over there,” Emily says, as shocked as I am. She weakly tugs at my wrist to make me move, my eyes still locked on Mr. Shimada as he easily hauls himself over the roof’s edge, brushing his hands as the officers yell incoherently.

He and Lena are smugly leaning against a rooftop vent when Emily and I emerge on the next roof.

“Next time,” I pant, my glare losing power with every wheezed breath, “You decide to parkour all over the damn place… _warn me first_.”

“I’m terribly sorry,” Mr. Shimada smirks, leaning down to my level as I catch my breath doubled over, “Will you need a minute before we move to the next rooftop?”

“I hate y’all,” I groan, slowly straightening up and stretching.

“Told you not to smoke so much,” Lena giggles, her hands on her hips.

“Y’all’re the ones jumpin’ ‘round like yer a buncha bullfrogs,” I shoot back, “ _I_ ain’t the problem here!”

“If you are all _quite_ finished,” one officer growls, “This is an active crime scene! Clear off before you contaminate it!”

“Warren, this is one of the eyewitnesses to the assassination,” Emily says, her voice firm and professional, “We’re walking through the events step by step and gathering evidence, just like you. No need to get shirty.”

“I’d say the bobbies’ve got it on lockdown here,” Lena says, a hand on Emily’s shoulder, “Let’s move to the next site.”

“How many stairs fer _that_ one?” I ask under my breath, heading back to the stairwell.

“No need, sir—we should be able to make it across most of these rooftops now that we’re up here,” Lena smiles, “…At least until we need to cross a street,” she adds, winking. “Come along, lads!”

As it turns out, climbing across the rooftops _is_ marginally easier, and way more efficient. Lena’s attitude sobers up a bit as we find the first chalk outline, and then the next. It’s easy to see why ‘multiple shooters’ is the leading theory; a figure like Mondatta commands a pretty high standard security detail, and from the looks of it, they didn’t stand a chance against this shooter. For one person to do this much damage this precisely and quickly…

This is _Blackwatch_ level execution.

The only difference is that when I was running ops like this, I didn’t leave bodies where they would be found. No, whoever did this doesn’t care if anyone knows what they did—obviously, since they assassinated a world-famous Omnic in front of a crowd… Or maybe they _want_ to be known.

“Lena, Miss Johnson, have any groups claimed responsibility for this attack yet?” I ask, my eye raking over the scene, hunting for anything clues that might have been left behind.

“A few,” Emily says, “But none of them seem credible to Scotland Yard—and from Lena’s testimony, they’re even less credible. There’s no anti-Omnic organization in the UK who could execute an attack this sophisticated—even less so if we’re talking about one assassin.”

“Well, there are certainly folks who _could_ do this on their lonesome,” I remark, my eye twitching as the processor works overtime. Burnt fiber fragments, gunpowder residue, blood spray…no, not just blood spray. I narrow my gaze, switching to the infrared setting to pick out the difference between midnight shadow and dried blood.

The rooftop looks less like a crime scene and more like a grenade went off. Half of what I thought were shadows or leaks from the broken pipes are blood stains, sprayed practically to the next rooftop. Bits of bone stand out here and there…Jesus. I can only imagine what the poor bastard looked like before he was just a chalk outline.

Not much left to outline, really.

But nothing here seems like it belongs to the shooter, though. Clean…hell, cleaner than me. “No calling card?”

“Nothing,” Lena said. “She didn’t even say who she was with, or why she did it…”

“Damn…” I rack my brain for female ex-Blackwatch snipers, trying to find somewhere to start from. As Overwatch was shutting down, Blackwatch agents scattered like rats deserting a ship. Most of us had criminal histories, after all, so we had reason and a half to run from an official investigation. Not everyone was as lucky as me—most were recruited after their 18th birthdays, and couldn’t get their records expunged in exchange for service. And, like those with a more pedestrian criminal record often find, getting legitimate work is nigh impossible; many ex-Blackwatch agents have been turning up more and more in shadowy mercenary groups, brutal drug lords’ private armies, and terrorist organizations.

Just one more reason I take a little creative license with my resumé.

My eye feels hot and itchy—gotta take it easy for a few minutes.

“Alright Lena, walk us through this site,” I say, doing my damnedest not to rub at my eye too much.

“Well, I was back on the roof where we started,” she begins, “I lost visual contact for a moment before I saw the firefight break out on this rooftop. I came across, but she was moving fast, trying to get away.”

“Nah, she wasn’t runnin’ away,” I say, looking from where we started to where a police chopper is shining a spotlight. “She was looking for her secondary position. You dislodged her, but she had a mission to complete.”

“There were two more bodies on that rooftop over there,” Emily adds, leading us to the rooftop edge. “It’s a bit of a climb, but I think we can make it.”

“Y’all go ahead and scout it out, I’ll follow,” I say, watching my temperature monitor slowly tick back down to 37C.

“Come on, Em!” Lena calls, blinking across rooftops to our next destination.

“Are you alright, Mr. McCree?” Mr. Shimada asks, his sharply groomed brows knitting.

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Your eye is twitching. Do you need to smoke?”

“Naw, it’s not that, it’s just my eye actin’ up,” I say, opening it up wide as I run a few basic diagnostics. My pupil’s motion betrays its cybernetic nature.

“How did you lose it?” Mr. Shimada asks, “If it’s not too personal a question.”

“I didn’t—I gave it up,” I say, shrugging. “Made me more effective in the field.”

“In Overwatch,” Mr. Shimada clarifies, watching me carefully.

“Yeah,” I reply, the ‘all clear’ message flashing in my eye before returning my vision to normal. “Cybernetic eye replaces a lot of separate pieces of equipment that can get broken or lost. Scope, camera, maps, HUD visor—jes’ had it all built-in.”

“You need not convince me of the efficacy of cybernetic body parts,” Mr. Shimada smirks, sliding one leg forward in an almost suggestive manner before lifting his pant leg a short distance; rather than a fine wool sock over a slightly hairy ankle, I see titanium and carbon fiber. I whistle lowly.

“That explains the jumping,” I say.

“ _That_ ,” he begins, dropping his pant leg again, “Is pure practice and determination, Mr. McCree. Although the prosthetics certainly don’t hurt,” he adds, smirking.

“Come on, slowcoaches!” Lena yells from several rooftops over, waving encouragingly in Emily’s direction as she carefully clambered over damaged vents and A/C exhausts.

“Best not keep the ladies waiting,” I say, gesturing for Mr. Shimada to go first. He climbs and weaves his way across the rooftops with disturbing ease, my own progress hindered slightly by my greater bulk. No wonder they sent a woman for this hit—getting a man through some of these spaces would be rough, even before the area was damaged in the firefight and explosion. I can’t help but notice more bullet holes in the roofs as I move; a different caliber. Heavier, but still consistent with an automatic rifle. Probably the security detail’s weapons, then; ready to take out human or Omnic threats. I snap a quick photo to compare with later, glad nobody is around to ask who I’m winking at.

“This is where she used the sniper configuration on her gun, sir,” Lena says.

“One of the security guards was hit with one of those sniper rounds,” I remark, “They’ll be scraping him off the rooftops for weeks, and still probably won’t find all of him.”

“Very vivid, sir,” Lena murmurs, looking away.

“Sorry. So, did you see her position?”

“Yes, sir, she was right over here,” Lena says, leading me over to a spot just in front of one of the chalk outlines. No blood here—must’ve snapped this poor bastard’s neck, then.

“Alright, so the perp is standing here,” I narrate, squaring my stance and raising my imaginary sniper rifle. I don’t need my eye to tell me the guard she half-vaporized with her gun was less than 50 meters away—probably closer to 25. If she was packing ammo to kill an Omnic, she would have used rounds that could stop a damn elephant. All Omnics are toting medium to heavy armor of certain vital systems, and I don’t imagine Omnic monks would strip away the casing protecting their robo-hearts. After all, that armor protects squishy humans like us, too; that radiation is no joke. Just ask Australia.

“We haven’t found any casings on this end of the roof,” Emily says. “We found cartridges consistent with the security personnel’s weapons over there, by the second victim’s body. He was killed with what seems to be the same weapon used in the stairwell we first started in. Ballistics will probably be able to confirm that before sunrise.”

“So she takes aim at the guard on the other roof…Bang,” I say, my hand leaving the imaginary trigger to slide back the bolt on my imaginary sniper rifle—I’m a traditionalist. I pause and look to my right, where my imaginary ejected cartridge would fall.

“Well, y’ won’t find ‘em on the roof,” I say a little louder, “They’re gonna be down in the alleyway. Lena? Why don’t you and Mr. Shimada head down there and see what you can find. You don’t mind a little climbin’, do ya?” I ask, shooting a wink at Mr. Shimada.

“I live for it,” he replies, his voice entirely too velvety-smooth.

“Oh, before you two go down there, take these,” Emily says, holding out a few small plastic bags.

“What are they?” Mr. Shimada asks, taking one with some suspicion.

“Evidence bags,” Emily says, “If you find something, we don’t want you contaminating the evidence with your fingerprints or fibers.”

“Ah, of course,” Mr. Shimada nods, taking the bag and vaulting over the edge of the rooftop.

“Back in a jiffy,” Emily winks, taking her bag and blinking over the edge as well.

I lean over as far as I dare, adjusting my hat slightly as I watch Mr. Shimada climb down the wall with as much ease as a man on a ladder, Lena blinking back and forth across windowsills and the scantiest ledges as she makes her way to the ground. I straighten back up and sigh, sitting on the low parapet before I pull out a cigar and cut the head, being careful to let the discarded portion fall into the alleyway. No contaminating the scene, after all. There are a few minutes of relative silence as I toast the foot and coax the cigar to life, my shoulders relaxing as soon as the creamy, nutty smoke hits my tongue.

“So,” I begin, puffing out a cloud of rich smoke, “Nobody believes Lena’s testimony, huh?”

“No,” Emily sighs, sitting upwind next to me. “They just don’t want to listen to a ‘secretary’ tell them what to do.” She doesn’t even need the air-quotes to express how she feels about the rest of her office right now.

“You an’ I both know she’s more than a secretary,” I say.

“Of course she is,” Emily replies, hurt leaking into her tone from somewhere other than this conversation. “That’s why _I’m_ listening—not just because she’s my girlfriend. I know she knows what she’s talking about. After all, she was in Overwatch, same as you, wasn’t she?”

My gaze narrows, and I carefully roll the cigar in my steel fingers.

“Yeah, she was in Overwatch—but she ain’t nothin’ like me,” I say. “That there’s for the best. World needs more folks like her.” And less like me, I want to say, but I’m far too sober to let any of that self-deprecation out in polite company. I take another draw, holding my mouthful of smoke perhaps longer than I ought before blowing it out, watching it drift and curl in the night air. “Folks who are above the table. Folks who look on the bright side of everything.” Folks who didn’t use to _create_ crime scenes like this, assassinating despots and rubbing elbows with kingpins. The smoke holds my tongue.

The chopper moves off; sirens wail in the distance. Emily’s radio gurgles and crackles periodically, but she pays it little mind.

“…I do wish we had finally met under better circumstances,” Emily says after a long while, glancing over at me. “Lena _did_ say you were a bit of a character.”

“Heh, I wish that, too, Miss,” I say, unable to hide my grin. “Lena’s proud you got this job, but she misses you somethin’ fierce.”

“I miss her, too,” Emily sighs, “What’re the chances of opening a London office, eh?” I let out a bark of laughter.

“Suppose that depends on how well this here investigation goes, don’t it?”

“Oi! I think we found something!” Lena shouts from the alleyway.

“Bag it and bring it back up here!” I holler back, ashing my cigar over the ledge before tucking it safely away between my teeth. Several blinks of blue light precede Lena’s arrival, but she is empty-handed. “Where’s Mr. Shimada?”

“He’s coming,” Lena says, peering over the edge for a moment before Mr. Shimada’s head pops up over the parapet.

“Did you just climb back up that wall like a gecko or somethin’?” I ask.

“How else would I get up here so fast?” he asks in return, holding out his little baggie of evidence. “It’s as you said, the shell was in the alleyway—a high-power rifle cartridge.”

My eyes widen slightly as I take the bag, holding it up in the weak light. ‘High-power’ is an understatement; it’s fucking _massive—_ this thing looks like it’s a .50 BMG’s prom date. _Definitely_ an anti-materiel round. _Definitely_ something that would delete a human being from existence…and _definitely_ something that would end an Omnic. Hell, a round like this would put down an OR-14 from a kilometer away—ask me how I know.

“Is that a .50 cal?” Lena asks, leaning closer.

“No, it’s too short,” Emily replies almost immediately. “Forces all over the UK use .50 BMG rounds, I’d know them anywhere.”

“Could it be French, then?” Lena continues, “The shooter was _definitely_ French…”

“Maybe so,” Emily says, shining her flashlight on the bag. “It’s certainly not British, though. We don’t have a happy medium between a .50 and a .338…”

“No, this ain’t a French round,” I say, holding the bag carefully. “I’ve seen these before. Egyptian Army used something like ‘em in the Crisis. They poured their resources into snipers, ordered some pretty heavily specialized ammo. This was the smallest round they used, if I remember correctly, .416 Barrett AP round. Tungsten penetrator—slides right through Omnic armor plating, and the rounds were lighter than .50 BMGs with the same penetrators, so snipers could carry more into the field.”

“Not that that means the shooter couldn’t _be_ French,” Emily reiterates, patting Lena on the shoulder.

“Right—that’d jes’ mean they knew exactly what they were needin’ for a mission like this,” I say. “Reckon we oughta turn this over to the proper authorities, though,” I add, holding the bag out to Emily with a wink. “Lucky us, to have the authorities so close at hand.”

“This might just be the piece we need to figure out where to start looking, in any case,” Emily smiles, quickly labeling the bag before tucking it into her jacket pocket. “Come on, we’d better hurry back and share our find.”


	5. Extrapolations

“Alright, so the bomb was before or after the poison mine?”

“After, sir,” Lena says, “Both before and after I rewound to get out of the mine.”

“Gotcha.”

“I’m afraid I’ll just have to point out the location of the explosion for you, sir—I don’t think we’ll be able to get up there easily. Well, Mr. Shimada could,” Lena continues, “But I reckon Ballistics is going to be up there for a while, so they wouldn’t let us in anyway.”

“There any way they can trace that bomb to you?” I ask, my voice low as we climb back down to street level.

“No, sir—the fragments that aren’t destroyed in the explosion get disassociated from time once they get too far from my accelerator,” she says, though she looks over her shoulder at a heavily charred area of the rooftops where several bobbies are shining flashlights. I’m pretty sure her bullets work similarly—that ought to be a headache for Scotland Yard. What theories will get slung around the office there, dry ice? Space lasers?

“Hey Nick!” Emily calls, pulling the bag out of her pocket, “We got the print scanner on site?”

“Yeah, why? Find something new?” a man replies, strolling over; despite the bags under his eyes, the suggestion of a break in the case adds a bit of pep to his step.

“I think so— _sniper rounds_ ,” Emily grins, holding out the bag. “Non-standard caliber. Even if we can’t pull a print from it, we can look at the shell itself.”

“Excellent—oh, cracking!” he says breathlessly, snatching the bag up and running toward a mobile command center parked next to the theater. “Good work, Em! Oi! We’ve got a new casing!”

“How long t’ pull prints from that, you reckon?” I ask between puffs on my cigar.

“About an hour, depending on how long the queue is for the scanner,” Emily says, “But if the shooter isn’t from the UK, we probably won’t have their prints on file.”

“If the assassin was smart, she would have worn gloves to load her weapon anyway,” Mr. Shimada sniffs, “Prints are unlikely.”

“Well, if she was smart, she would’ve cleaned up her casings, too,” I reply, “Sometimes you’re in a hurry to get things done, though—you slip up. She wasn’t countin’ on Lena being there and fucking up her whole operation.”

“And even if prints are unlikely, it’s still worth it to try. This is quite a high-profile assassination, after all,” Emily adds.

“What do you think, Mr. McCree?” Mr. Shimada asks, “What is our next move?”

“At the moment, I’m thinkin’ our next move ought to be gettin’ something to eat and hittin’ the hay,” I say, pulling out my phone and checking the time—nearly 12 AM local. Not exactly past my bedtime back home, but we’ve packed a lot of living into the last 24 hours, and a cigar and my flask can only provide so much comfort compared to a hot meal and a bed.

“Sounds good to me, sir,” Lena nods. “Right then, let’s go for cheeky Nando’s with the lads!” she winks.

“I have no idea what jes’ came outta your mouth,” I say, just staring at her for a long moment.

“Good—I was afraid it was just me,” Mr. Shimada says, the corners of his mouth quirking up a bit.

“Come on, let’s just go a few stops down on the tube and we’ll be right,” Lena says, “Em, you coming?”

“I should probably stay on the scene…” she says, pulling out her phone, “Unless I bring back some Nando’s for the boys, that is,” she adds, conspicuously raising her voice. A flurry of shouts returns, calling for butterflies, wings, wraps, chips, whatever the hell ‘macho peas’ are.

“Guess we’ll find out what we’re gettin’ when we get there,” I shrug, watching as Emily taps her order into a sleek app.

* * *

“Oh, you’ve got to be _kidding_ me!” Lena shouts as we emerge from a tube station, Emily hurrying to her side and immediately looking scandalized.

“Sacrilege!”

“What? What’s wrong?” Mr. Shimada asks, looking around as we hit ground level.

The street looks like a demonstration-turned-riot has quite recently been dispersed; there are trashed cars up and down the road, the ground littered with broken glass, rocks, overturned trashcans with lingering fires—the air smells pretty strongly of tear gas, on top of it all. Most of the stores on the street are shuttered, save for what looks to be our destination, a restaurant across the road with its front windows broken out. It doesn’t seem to be bothering the patrons inside, however, even as an employee in a black and red shirt sweeps up the broken glass out front.

“Oi, you still open?” Lena yells.

“Seems that way,” the man yells back.

“What monumental assholes would vandalize a Nando’s?” Lena huffs, leading the way all puffed up like an angry little bluebird. “I don’t care what’s happened, some things are just too important!”

“Chicken, I presume, is one of them?” Mr. Shimada asks, surveying the sign.

“It’s more than just chicken,” Lena insists, pushing the door open and leading us to the counter.

As far as the menu is concerned, it _is_ just chicken. Sure, there’s a vegetarian menu off to the side and a mention of steak tucked away in a corner somewhere, but it’s…just chicken. Nothing on the menu is labeled ‘cheeky’, either, so I guess I’ll just be getting whatever the guy behind the counter recommends. I come away with a receipt for half a chicken, coleslaw and no more hints as to what ‘macho peas’ are than when I first heard the term, and we all weave our way toward a table next to the broken-out windows.

“Hey, Constable, any word on the robo-killing tonight?”

“It’s under investigation,” Emily replies coolly.

“Good riddance,” another man mutters, “Too many of those damn tin cans around here anyway.”

“Lot of nerve, speaking at a place like that, too—like they’re trying to take over King’s Row again.”

“Lena,” Emily warns, resting a hand on Lena’s forearm as her fists clench. It’s not nearly enough to stop a firecracker like her, of course.

“Somebody _died_ tonight!” Lena snaps, shooting up from her seat and knocking it over. “And Mondatta had _nothing_ to do with Null Sector seven years ago! He was one of the _hostages_ back then! That place is as much his as anyone else’s!”

“Ugh, another toaster tart.”

“Say that to my face!”

“Lena, enough,” I say, rising from my seat and sliding between her and the offending table. “Everybody’s nerves are shot after what happened tonight, let’s jes’ eat.”

“Sir! You can’t let this go! If they’ll say those things now—”

“We can’t go re-educatin’ every bigot in the world,” I murmur, “We’d be here ‘til Kingdom Come.”

“Maybe so, but I sure as hell _can_ re-educate every bigot in this Nando’s!”

Emily’s radio crackles to life, the words completely unintelligible to me. She answers quite loudly—a warning to all parties involved here, if I’m betting.

“Johnson here…roger…oh, top! We’ll be back soon as the food is ready. Guys, we have prints!” she adds in a stage whisper. “Oi!” she calls, hopping up from her seat and darting to the counter. “Terribly sorry, can you wrap up all our orders to go? We have to get back to the scene.” If it weren’t for my cybernetic eye, I probably wouldn’t have caught the way the cashier’s face fell at the request—or possibly the loss of an officer to help keep the peace in the restaurant.

* * *

Thankfully, we don’t have to carry 23 orders of grilled chicken far once we leave the King’s Row Tube station. Hungry officers swarm us, scooping up boxes of food willy nilly and opening them up like it’s Christmas morning before hurrying around and trading for the orders they had originally placed. It’s not a pretty or efficient system, by any means, but I suppose it works.

“So you got prints?” Emily asks, wadding up the plastic bags she had been carrying and stuffing them in her pockets for the moment. An officer nods, tearing into a chicken wing.

“We pulled a partial,” he says, decent enough to cover his mouth while speaking.

“That shell was so big, it’s practically a whole print,” another officer replies. “Operator said it was about 80, 85%. It was smudged, but the system’s extrapolated 358 possible matches.”

“Wow, really? That’s pretty narrow!” Emily grins, “We should be able to process all of those in a week or two, tops.”

“Probably better—we’ve got the boys back at Metro narrowing down those extrapolations, and we’re starting with known anti-Omnic extremist cells and Mondatta’s security detail, in case they had a mole. We should have a verdict by the end of the week.”

“Come on, loves, we’d better eat before our food gets cold,” Lena smiles, her mood lifted since the run-in at the restaurant.

Something about the hot sauce is a little different, but that ain’t nothing to hold against it—it’s still damn good and damn hot. It’s way better soul food than I expected to find in London. I still don’t know what’s ‘cheeky’ about it, though, and neither Lena nor Emily was able to explain it on the ride back—they just launched into hypothetical stories about guys named ‘Caleb’ and ‘Jones’.

“Hey, PC Johnson, do you have any extra lemon herb sauce?”

I glance up and see someone who looks totally out of place in a crime scene; his clean suit, slipping glasses and rubber gloves suggest he’s from the mobile crime lab.

“Sure thing, love,” she smiles, digging through one of the remaining sacks. “Not much demand for it, you’re in luck.”

“Look, if you ask me,” he says, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, “We’re not going to find a match for that print. It would take two weeks to run all the extrapolated prints we calculated just through the British Isles database—but there’s no way a known UK crim is the shooter. This was too well-executed for a crim, we need to be looking for…I don’t know, mercenaries. MI6. Special Forces…”

“Yer talkin’ an international manhunt,” I say, scraping the remaining bits of coleslaw from the bottom of its container. “I’m inclined to agree. I’d say ex-Blackwatch is likely.”

“Bloody hell…you…you really think so, Mister…ah?”

“McCree. Detective,” I supply, “And I surely do. Blackwatch specialized in assassinations, kidnappings, all that nasty shit. ‘Course, lotta ex-Blackwatch agents turn up in mercenary groups, so yer on the right track.”

“Have you heard the eyewitness reports?” Emily asks, holding out a few yellow-green packets.

“No, I’ve just been looking at physical evidence this whole time.”

“Well, a little bird told me the shooter had a French accent,” Emily continues, winking and nudging Lena’s leg with her own. “I’d start my international search there. France keeps biometric data on all citizens, not just crims. The search will be longer, but…”

“No, no, that’s great!” the tech grins, stuffing the sauce packets in his pockets, “Any lead is a good lead at this point—thanks!” he calls, galloping back to the mobile lab.

“Glad to see everyone is well-fed here, Johnson.” Emily practically chokes on her peas.

“Chief Superintendent!” she sputters, shooting to her feet and wiping her mouth quickly. “We wanted to get our orders in before the restaurants all closed tonight, sir.”

The Chief looks like the sort of man who doesn’t know how to retire. The salt-and-pepper hair and world-weary gaze tell me he’s seen plenty of crime scenes in his day, and the way he favors one leg as he stands in front of us suggests he was forced by necessity onto desk work at some point rather than starting his career looking for the cushy administrative jobs. Can’t keep a good cop off the beat, though, I suppose.

“Nando’s is still open even with the riots?”

“Yes, sir.”

The chief just grunts in acknowledgment. “And who are you lot?” he asks, looking down at my entire staff.

“Pardon me, sir,” I say, rising with a bit more swagger than one of his officers might have and fishing out my obviously-not-British shield, “Detective McCree, here t’ lend a hand on the investigation.”

“I don’t remember calling any office in the United States for help on this case,” the Chief replies, narrowing his gaze slightly.

“I’m doin’ a bit of pro bono work here—a favor, if you please,” I add, gesturing to Lena, “To my staffer here. She was an eyewitness.”

“Yes, the _secretary_ ,” the Chief sniffs, “With the stories about some sort of supersoldier or what have you.”

“She’s more of an apprentice than a secretary,” I reply, hooking my thumbs into my belt and puffing up my chest slightly. I ain’t about to stand for this ‘secretary’ nonsense anymore.

“She could be the bloody Archbishop of Canterbury, she doesn’t have the authority to call in additional investigators from overseas to work _our_ crime scene,” he growls, not cowed in the least. I can’t hardly blame him, but I don’t have to like his tone.

“Either way, we’ve been over the scene with yer officers and picked up some evidence y’all missed on your first go-around,” I say—why bother schooling my accent when he ain’t gonna respect me anyway?

“Yes, on the _first_ sweep,” the Chief replies, “Whatever you found, we would have come across by morning. This is, after all, an active crime scene. We’re bound to find more with every sweep.”

“Of course, I never said ‘ch’y’all’d’n’t’ve found it eventually—jes’ that we found it fer y’all first,” I say, holding my hands up and barely suppressing my smirk—and my urge to lay it on any thicker. “Anything to save time—every little second counts, don’t it?”

“Right. I’m afraid I can’t put into words how we feel about your assistance on that matter,” he says, his tone crisp and his head high. Apparently, he’s as well-trained in the art of the backhanded compliment as I am. It’s like the Brits have been building their own version of me in a secret lab or something. “But unless you have a fingerprint scanner hidden inside that gaudy badge or hat of yours, I’m afraid there’s little more that you can do here.”

“I’m afraid yer right, Chief,” I say, my tone lacking any reverence for such a title, “I leave the investigation in yer _very_ capable hands.”

“It never left my hands,” he growls. I see a throb in his temple— _victory_. “Constable Johnson? Be a dear and show our _guests_ off premises.”

“Bless yer heart,” I smile, reaching down to pick up what’s left of my late dinner. “C’mon y’all, I’m sure the food’ll taste jes’ as good from the hotel.”

* * *

“Oh my _God_ ,” I groan as soon as we’re situated on the Tube again, slumping into my seat, “What a blowhard.”

“Well I thought you put up a wonderful fight, sir,” Lena smiles, patting my shoulder with one hand and barely holding onto the overhead bar with the other. “And a gracious exit. I was sure he was going to throw us in the clink, the way you two were posturing.”

Mr. Shimada is sitting ramrod straight next to me, his box of food held perfectly in his lap. I’m pretty sure he finished everything and just isn’t sure what’s a trash can and what’s a mailbox around here. The look on his face is sharp and calculating, as if he’s trying to puzzle out which one to chuck his garbage into when we get to our stop.

“So where are you staying, sir?” Lena asks, “If you need a room…”

“No need t’ go any further, Miss Lena,” I say, “We picked up a room at the airport hotel that’ll do us jes’ fine. Hopefully, we can grab some tickets t’ get us back to the States first thing tomorrow morning,” I add. “You comin’?”

“Reckon I should…Em’s gonna be busy for a while, so I might as well head back with you.” She looks up as the next stop is announced before looking back at us. “I’ll have to head home, then, get my things for tomorrow. You know your station?”

“We can handle it, darlin’, promise,” I smile, adjusting my hat slightly.

“Right then, see you at the airport, bright and early,” she winks, giggling as she hops off. The carriage remains empty except for the two of us as the train pulls out again, rocking gently along the tracks.

“Good work, tonight,” I say after a few slightly awkward moments of silence.

“Thank you,” Mr. Shimada replies, glancing over at me and letting his eyes roam up and down my slouched body a few times. “Being your…‘assistant’ has already turned out to be much more _interesting_ than I first thought.”

“Heh, life around me ain’t nothin’ if it ain’t interestin’,” I drawl, taking a swig from my flask.

“ _Please refrain from eating or drinking on the Underground,_ ” an automated message coolly chastises.

“Sorry,” I say automatically, screwing the lid back on and tucking it away. “Guess I’ll save it fer a nightcap.”

“…I must say, Mr. McCree,” he begins, his mouth suddenly much closer to my ear than I’d expected, “You rather impressed me tonight, yourself.”

“Did I, now?” I reply, raising a brow. “…Y’ reckon I’m gonna get another chance t’ impress you tonight?” I smirk, watching a matching expression crinkle the corners of Mr. Shimada’s eyes.

“I ‘reckon’ not,” Mr. Shimada purrs, pulling away teasingly. “Best to just sleep tonight,” he chuckles, flicking the brim of my hat.

“ _The next station is Victoria. Change for the District Line, the Victoria Line, National Rail Services, and Victoria Coach Station. Mind the gap between the train and the platform._ ”

* * *

By the time I’m showered and tumble into bed, there are only a few hours of sleep to be had. “Bathroom’s free,” I mutter into the semi-darkness of the room. I don’t see any motion from Mr. Shimada’s side; must already be asleep. Still, I don’t know when the last time he showered was, so I drag myself back upright wake him up. “Hey. Shimada.”

I flick on the light on the nightstand and stare at the vaguely human-shaped lump made of pillows on the bed.

Damnit, I should’ve known he was up to something the minute he started flirting with me again.  



	6. Revenge

Mr. Shimada is obviously planning on coming back, I tell myself; he left his luggage.

It’s only a small comfort, however, when I’m sitting in an empty hotel room the next morning with nothing to prove he was ever here except a childish attempt at disguising his absence and a suitcase that isn’t mine.

Sadly, as I pop open his suitcase, there’s nothing inside to indicate anywhere he might have gone. He’s got several fine suits, bottles of mineral oil and a tool kit for maintaining his legs, several storage devices neatly labeled with innocuous titles like ‘Movies’ and ‘FLAC Vinyl Rips A-E’... Probably documents he lifted from his former organization—he doesn’t seem like the ‘trying to hide porn’ type.

I tuck my gun back into Mr. Shimada’s suitcase and head down to the lobby alone, hoping that I don’t look like I’ve stolen somebody’s luggage; it’s definitely a little ritzier-looking than what I’m wearing, after all.

“Morning, sir!” Lena chirps, holding out a cup of coffee.

“Jesus, when did you get here?” I ask, stunned by the incongruity of finding my secretary offering me my morning joe on the other side of the planet.

“A little while ago,” she smiles, “Where’s…?”

“He…went for a walk,” I say, glancing at the bored-looking young man behind the front desk. “Look alive,” I call, tossing my room key on the desk, “I’m grabbin’ a bite an’ checking out.”

“Thank you for your patronage,” he replies, still looking bored.

“Anything good in the continental breakfast?” I ask, wandering vaguely over to the dining room. Several people are milling around, trying to wake up before their flights as well.

“Everything you would expect, sir,” she replies, tapping her finger on the side of the cup she is still holding.

“Oh, pardon me,” I say sheepishly, taking the coffee. It’s some of the worst I’ve tasted in a while, but the caffeine is appreciated either way. I’ll have a nice cup when we get home and I put this whole thing behind me.

Wait. Shit, Mr. Shimada hasn’t paid me yet. That little sonuva—

“Good morning, darling!”

I turn, finding the subject of my ire hurrying toward me with a dazzling smile. Aw hell, now I can’t stay mad. Not like I need to—he came back, after all. Good to know he isn’t trying to skip on the bill, at least. He moves close, rising up on tip-toe effortlessly to kiss me on the cheek. Lena giggles and I can feel the heat linger from his lips. It takes me a second to unstick my brain—we’d checked in as a couple last night; anyone who might be looking for Mr. Shimada expects someone traveling alone.

“Mornin’ honey,” I say, casually letting my hand brush against the small of his back. “Where were ya?”

“I just wanted to stretch my legs before our flight,” he replies, leaning into my hip, “I didn’t want to wake you—I know how you _hate_ early mornings.”

“I ‘preciate it,” I smile, allowing myself to enjoy the charade for a moment longer. “Shall we get a move on? Did ya eat yet?”

“I had a bite before I went out,” he replies, reaching for his suitcase. “Do we have everything?”

“Reckon so—we didn’t unpack much,” I say, nodding knowingly and gesturing to the door. “After you.”

“Still such a gentleman,” Mr. Shimada chuckles, leading our odd little group out the door.

I’m not surprised when his demeanor returns to its typical coolness once we’re clear of the hotel, waiting for the shuttle to take us to the terminal. Rather than just standing and waiting, however, he crouches down and opens his suitcase, pulling something from his pocket and depositing it in his maintenance kit.

“Wanted t’ stretch yer legs, huh?” I ask, watching him carefully re-secure his suitcase.

“We can speak once we are safely on our flight. ‘Darling’,” he adds, smirking—his tone is sarcastic, but if I’m not mistaken, I can still hear a hint of affection in it. As the shuttle bus pulls up, styled to look like the classic red double-deckers you always see in old movies, Mr. Shimada rises and boards the bus with cool confidence.

“Reckon we didn’t buy your ticket, Lena—sorry,” I say, gesturing for her to go ahead of me as well.

“That’s alright, sir, I’m sure I can work something out with the desk. Can’t imagine this is a popular flight anyway,” she adds, plopping down next to Mr. Shimada as heavily as a girl who weighs 95 pounds soaking wet can. Oh well, I guess I get to sit next to him for the whole trip back—besides, I’ve gotta make sure I have my bogus my paperwork in order to get my gun back on the plane. I sure as hell ain’t leaving Peacekeeper here, and I don’t want to talk to any more constables, especially not in windowless rooms.

* * *

It’s amazing how much of a stickler for the rules some folks can be. Mr. Shimada and I manage to pass through security with relative ease, considering I’m transporting a revolver (‘Historic firearm collector’, I’d said, ‘Rare prototype revolver designed for drovers in Australia’, I’d said, ‘Of course I have documentation’, I’d said after promising Sombra a little extra for her help, ‘Reckon it wouldn’t do much against an Omnic, no sir’, I’d said, treading carefully around what I suspect was a _very_ British anti-Omnic slur the constable had used), and who gets hassled but Lena.

“I’ve never heard of ‘chronal dissociation’,” the security officer sniffs.

“I don’t care if you’ve never heard of it, I’ve got medical documentation!” Lena cries, holding out a familiar note from doctors ‘Winston’ and ‘Ziegler’ outlining her medical needs. “I can’t leave my accelerator here or your flight will land with one less passenger!”

“If I don’t know what the bloody thing is, then it might land with no passengers!”

“Uh, pardon me,” I murmur, tipping my hat to a cute young security guard, her uniform a little big on her, “I can vouch fer that young woman over at that security line yonder—she’s a veteran of sorts, former Overwatch agent.”

“She is?” the guard whispers back, an excited gleam in her eyes, “I thought so! Didn’t want to say nothing and be wrong, though—”

“Yup. Helped liberate King’s Row from Null Sector pert’ near seven years ago. Y’think you could ask yer friend over there t’ let a bona fide British hero through?”

“I’ll do my best, sir!” she cries, leaving her partner to man the metal detector.

“You are quite the smooth talker,” Mr. Shimada smirks as I return to his side. Takes one to know one, I suppose.

“Sometimes it’s nice to tell the truth,” I purr. “By the way, yer lookin’ mighty fine this mornin’. Better than the last time I saw you after you woke up,” I add, chuckling.

“I know when to accept a compliment, backhanded though it may be,” Mr. Shimada chuckles.

“Aww, c’mon now,” I smile, turning to face him a little more fully, “Why can’t that mean that even when yer hung over, yer gorgeous?”

“Hmm, perhaps because when you are drunk, _everyone_ looks more attractive,” Mr. Shimada replies, crossing his arms and looking quite pleased with our little exchange.

“Oh, but I’m sober as a judge right now—I can give a totally accurate assessment. Shall I start with yer cheekbones?” I offer, winking.

“Ha! Is that really the first thing you notice about me? My cheekbones?” Mr. Shimada replies, shifting closer.

“Naw…the first thing that drew me in was yer hair,” I murmur; it’s a time for telling the truth, after all. “So smooth and inky black. It was the only part of you that didn’t look like it was set to kill me,” I add, earning another chuckle.

“Is it still as appealing, now that you no longer fear for your life?”

“Believe me, darlin’, I still fear for my life a bit around you,” I grin, “…But yes, it is.”

“…Go on, tell me more about me,” Mr. Shimada prompts, his hand rising to my shoulder. Is he still pretending we’re married?

“Ever since I first saw you, it’s been a fight to keep myself from runnin’ my fingers through yer hair every minute,” I reply, adding ‘fighting the urge to put my hand on his waist’ to the list as well.

“You are a man of great restraint and patience,” Mr. Shimada chuckles, the corners of his eyes crinkling with his smile. God, up close like this he’s even more beautiful than I dared to think.

“I’m a man with a powerful imagination, is all,” I whisper, giving up and letting my hand ghost a touch at Mr. Shimada’s waist. I know I’m not imagining it when he steps into the touch, though. “I keep myself satisfied imagining how good it’d look against the pillows.”

“I assure you,” Mr. Shimada whispers, a playful spark in his eyes as he looks up at me, “It looks _very_ good.”

Jesus, Mary and all her wacky nephews, I hope I’m not getting hard in the middle of the airport.

“Maybe someday, you can see for yourself,” he purrs, standing on tip-toe to whisper in my ear. “Or perhaps _I_ will see what _you_ look like against the pillows.”

Damnit, I’m getting hard in the middle of the airport.

“Ugh, _finally!_ ” Lena groans, hopping towards us as she pulls her shoe on. “Thought I’d never get past that wanker.” My hand shoots away from Mr. Shimada’s waist, though he is slower to retreat from me.

“We’d better get to our gate,” I say, filling my mind with baseball statistics and thoughts of cold showers.

“Right-o!” Lena grins, darting farther into the airport.

“Should we, uh, continue this discussion later?” I ask, vaguely aware of the warmth in my cheeks.

“I certainly plan to,” Mr. Shimada smirks, letting his rough fingertips trail down the collar of my coat.

Suddenly, the supersonic transatlantic flight seems a lot longer.

* * *

‘ _Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking, we are nearing our final approach to Kennedy. If you have removed any of your belongings in flight, please return them to the overhead bin or under the seat in front of you. If you need to visit the lavatory, please do so now prior to deceleration—and please, try not to crowd the doors. The weather in New York City is rainy, with a temperature of approximately 22 degrees, so if New York is your final destination, do use an umbrella. If your final destination is elsewhere—’_

“Well, there goes my dream of the Mile High Club,” I remark.

“You are absolutely uncouth,” Mr. Shimada remarks, though his smirk remains.

“Not t’ change the subject,” I begin, watching as the man seated behind us hurries down the aisle to the bathroom, “But y’ still ain’t clued me in on where you were this mornin’.”

“I was…picking up a souvenir,” he replies, “A little something to remember Scotland Yard by,” he adds.

“Why do I have the feelin’ you don’t mean a set of shot glasses or a T-shirt?” I ask.

“Because I don’t,” Mr. Shimada replies, smirking and buckling his seatbelt. “Lena said the assassin took three shots from the rooftop, yes? …So on subsequent passes over the crime scene, the other casings will turn up. It’s no major loss—”

“You st— _you stole evidence?_ ” I ask, quickly lowering my voice.

“Just because that arrogant chief wanted us to drop our contributions to the investigation doesn’t mean we have to,” Mr. Shimada replies in a confident whisper. “I hired you to investigate this murder, and without this evidence that _I_ found, we cannot do that from your office.”

“…You do realize that even if we crack the case, we won’t be able to take it to the police—let alone to the court—because _we committed international evidence theft to crack the case,_ ” I whisper, my brow furrowing. This man is insane.

“I don’t _want_ to take this monster to the police,” Mr. Shimada replies, his tone losing the playful tone he had been using with me all morning and returning to more of the cold, calculating yakuza boss he was when he first waltzed into my office. “If I wanted the _police_ to handle this killer, then I wouldn’t have hired you. I know something of who you _used_ to be, Mr. McCree—I know you are used to operating outside of the law. You weren’t rank and file Overwatch,” he whispers, his eyes narrowing. “I know you have the skills—the network—to do what needs to be done, else I wouldn’t have come to you for protection in the first place. Surely, you must have wondered why, out of all of the private investigators in the city of New York, I came to you? It’s certainly not that your office is the first result on Google.”

I purse my lips, the cogs in my head frantically turning as I change gears from ‘flirting’ to ‘shock’ to ‘Blackwatch’. It’s not a gear I shift into too much anymore—not consciously anyway. I never much liked the man I was then…

“What does this case even matter t’ you?” I ask, my gaze narrowing. “Why’s robo-Gandhi so damn important to you, that you’ll go to these lengths to—what, _avenge him?"_

“I told you—the Shambali have done much for Omnics in Japan.”

“This is more’n that,” I snap back, “Lotta people feel that way ‘bout the Shambali. What’s yer skin in the game, for real?”

Mr. Shimada purses his lips and turns away, and I’m half afraid he’s just going to end the conversation right then and there. I’m turning over the possibility of ending our partnership when he speaks again.

“Mondatta…personally took in Genji. He received him and agreed to help without judgment. He did not speak to me with animosity or disdain—even when I told him I was responsible for my brother’s state. Nothing but compassion. He is—was—truly who he presented himself to be. I’ve never met a human as authentic as Tekhartha Mondatta. He is a savior to Genji and I in a very real sense—and he was _murdered. Assassinated_ for his message of compassion and peace. If I am anywhere near a position to bring justice to his killer, then I will stop at _nothing_.”

“Vengeance…don’t sound very Shambali-like,” I mutter.

“I am _not_ a Shambali,” Mr. Shimada replies, sitting back in his seat. “I can seek vengeance without any sort of ethical quandary. But if you cannot…” He glances over at me in an appraising way, and for once, I don’t like it.

I sigh, slumping back in my seat as well. “I never said I wasn’t gonna keep helpin’ you,” I reply, wishing desperately for one of my cigars at that moment. “Jes’ tryin’ t’ clarify what our goals are, here, if it ain’t an arrest or prosecution.”

“Revenge. That is the goal,” Mr. Shimada whispers, his tone pouring ice down my spine.

“…Alright then. Let’s get revenge.”


	7. The Hacker

“Alright, so what’s the plan now, sir?” Lena asks as she loads her suitcases into the back of my truck.

“Gotta make a call, y’all hop in, I’ll be there in a second,” I say, punching in Sombra’s number. It takes a little longer than I’m used to for the call to actually connect this time.

“Hola,” she says, her mouth obviously full. Based on the crunch, I’d say Doritos, but she’s always getting those subscription snack boxes—who knows?

“Took y’ long enough,” I mutter. “Hey, got somethin’ for ya to analyze—you got some sort of spectroscopic scanner or a really big microscope or something?”

“Yeah, I’ve got ‘something’,” Sombra replies, along with a loud slurp. “What are you trying to look at?”

“Got a bullet casing—need to analyze it, see if there’s anything distinctive about it. Where it was made, where it might’ve come from… I got a feeling about it, but I want somethin’ more definitive than my gut.”

“Your guts are usually right, but I feel you. I can fire up some of this stuff. Might need to get some of it out of storage but hey, you paid for it.”

“Trust me, I know,” I sigh. “We’ll be back in the city inside of an hour. Shoot me a text when yer ready for us.”

“I got it.” The line goes dead halfway through another loud crunch. I check the time on my phone, and it’s barely even 6:30 yet—no way those were breakfast food noises. Jesus, does she ever sleep?

“My vote is we head back to the office,” I say, “Plenty of coffee there, an’ I imagine we’ll be needing it. Been a long 48 hours…”

“Did you get any sleep, sir?” Lena asks, her legs folded up in the back seat.

“Jes’ a touch,” I reply, shrugging. “I can take a nap on the couch in the office. Hell, maybe actually fold it out fer once.”

“I, too, did not get much sleep,” Mr. Shimada adds, giving me a knowing glance. “Perhaps I will take a nap as well.”

Lena giggles in the backseat. “Took your cover story all the way, did you?”

“Girl, get your mind out of the gutter,” I say, shooting a playful glance into the rear-view mirror.

* * *

Mr. Shimada’s exhaustion catches up with him first, and he toes off his shoes next to the sofa before laying down, dropping off almost immediately.

“Swear he sleeps on my couches more’n anything,” I remark, draping yet another thin throw blanket from the back of the sofa over his form. “Lena, you wanna check the messages? Don’t suspect there’s much waitin’ for us, but…”

“On it!” she smiles, darting into the front of the office. I sit down rather heavily at my desk, glad to be ‘home’. The coffee is hot, my humidor is stocked, my charge is safe in the office…it’s almost like I’m back on ‘vacation’ again. I pull up my monitor, the holo-display blinking cheerfully to life from the projector in my desk as I quickly note down our travel expenses and my growing list of contracts with Mr. Shimada. Rule number one, ‘everything is billable’.

“Nothing new, sir,” Lena calls from the doorway. Mr. Shimada groans something from the couch, and Lena winces. “Sorry Mr. Shimada!” she stage whispers.

“Well, might as well work through yer backlog from your vacation. Don’t get started on anything too in-depth—soon as I hear from my contact, we’re on the move.”

“Roger,” she winks, easing the door shut on her way to the front office.

I shut off the holo-monitor and deposit the keyboard in my desk drawer before strolling over to Mr. Shimada’s suitcase. No need for him to still have my gun in his luggage now—it’s just a liability at this point. I slide Peacekeeper back into its holster and, after a moment’s hesitation, I open Mr. Shimada’s maintenance kit.

There, nestled between a few screwdrivers and lubricant injectors, is the .416 shell, the partial fingerprint standing slightly from the material after physical enhancement. The print is small-ish—confirms Lena’s account of a female shooter—and relatively clean. She loaded it with confidence, no extra fumbling or handling. Kinda wish I still had access to Blackwatch files—I could’ve checked the print myself. After all, almost all of us had criminal records, their prints would be in the system.

I take one of the latex gloves out of the cleaning kit and pull the shell out of the bag, carefully photographing it at every angle in as many different modes as my eye can handle before returning it to the bag and tucking it in my pocket. The less about Mr. Shimada’s ‘souvenir’ Lena knows, the better. Then it’s back into my comfy desk chair for a well-needed nap. I’m not usually one who sleeps at my desk, but the alternative is kicking Mr. Shimada off of the couch, and there’s hardly any call for that.

My phone rings almost as soon as I close my eyes, and I scramble slightly in my seat before finally fishing it out of my pocket.

“ _Ready. You know the place._ ” The voice on the other end is garbled and low; obviously modulated about 18 times. Damn, modulated voices always gave me the creeps.

“Have a nice nap, sir?” Lena asks, poking her head in the door and smiling.

“Ha ha, I barely put my head down.”

“You’ve been sleeping for the last three hours,” she replies, giving me a wry smirk. “I know—you were snoring.”

“Could’ve been Shimada,” I mutter, rising and tasting the sleep in my mouth. Disgusting. Better at least gargle before we head to Sombra’s place.

“He was snoring, too,” she giggled. “You two must _really_ have slept poorly at the hotel, wink wink nudge nudge,” she added.

“Hey now, I’m trying to keep at least some semblance of a professional atmosphere here,” I say, gently shaking Mr. Shimada awake. “Hey. Shimada. Wake up, we’ve gotta go meet my contact.”

“‘m awake,” he slurs in reply, obviously not so. God, it’s almost cute though…

“C’mon. Get up, brush yer teeth, we’re headin’ out. Wanna make a good first impression…”

* * *

Sometimes, I can’t stand how paranoid these hackers can be. It takes us almost an hour and a half to get from my office to a location I know is less than 30 minutes away, even in bad traffic. There are two Ubers, three Lyfts, and a round of lunch to placate my companions before we’re standing outside a door in a dingy alley. I knock with my metal hand; the clang is deep and heavy and foreboding.

The eye slit slides open almost immediately.

“Password?”

“You didn’t give me a password,” I reply.

“There’s always a password.”

I groan, racking my brain for anything she might have dropped in the conversation as a password. The last contact was just ‘Ready’, no passwords hidden there…

“Dammit, um, ‘something’? …Um, it’s Monday…‘Reykjavík’? …‘Amphisbaena’?” I guess, “‘Probang’?”

There is a snicker from inside the eye slit, but the door doesn’t budge.

“Oi! Are you just taking the mick?” Lena snaps, stomping her foot, “Let us in!”

“No way, I’m having _way_ too much fun with this.”

I growl and dig through my pockets, pulling out my wallet. “Here, how’s this fer a password? Open the damn door!”

“Alright, alright, _cariño_ , come on in,” the voice from the other side replies, a loud buzz sounding for a moment before the door swings open on hinges far too smooth for such a dingy looking door.

The woman on the other side is shapely and sly, a pattern of circuits shaved into the sides of her head and lit with the purple glow of her cranial implants. Everything about her is a delightful exercise in contrast, from her killer eyeshadow to her hideous toe-shoes… At least she keeps her place dark enough that I can’t see each individual toe. But I know they’re there. Waiting.

“‘Ben Franklin’ is always my favorite password,” she smirks, holding out one hand.

“Yeah, yeah,” I grumble, stuffing a few bills in her hand and withdrawing before her terrifying digital-interfacing nails can get anywhere near my fingers. “Everybody, this is Sombra, Som, this is evr’body.”

“Step into my office, Miss Oxton, Mr. Shimada,” she says, gesturing into the shadowy building.

“How did you—” Mr. Shimada starts, his eyes widening.

“I deal in information,” she winks, “I have to know about my customers to know what they _really_ want.” Mr. Shimada takes a step closer, his jaw set.

“I trust that you are discrete with this _information_ of yours,” he growls. “Information can be dangerous.”

“Information is power, _amigo,_ ” Sombra smirks, unfazed.

“Now now, we’ve got a job to do,” I call, strolling deeper into her compound.

“I can’t see a thing in here,” Lena mutters, carefully picking her way through the shadows and LED indicator lights, the thrumming bass throwing off her equilibrium a bit based on her slow steps. The whole place shines like it’s under floodlights with my infrared vision, even with all her fancy liquid-cooling systems.

“I had to dig out some toys I’d barely played with since you paid for it,” Sombra begins, easily strolling through her familiar surroundings. She scoops up an empty pizza box and a half-eaten package of mail-order snacks and gestures to the sofa she has just cleared. “Make yourself comfortable. Now, what is it you wanted to analyze?”

“A little piece of evidence,” I say, reaching into my pocket and pulling out the bag. “It’s already had some VMD work done on it, so there’ll be trace elements of a contaminant, but other than that, it’s just how it was when we found it.”

“Wait—no, that’s not—?” Lena gasps.

“Oooh, cool. Where’d you find it?” Sombra asks, reaching for the bag.

“King’s Row,” I say. She hesitates.

“King’s Row, huh? Long way from the city…looking into the assassination?” Sombra asks, her tone growing much more serious.

“Yeah, the money was good enough.”

“You need to be careful, _vaquero_ , that’s dangerous stuff. Even _I’m_ not poking around into that yet—too much heat. I’m waiting at least 48 hours.”

“Well, I like to live on the edge,” I shrug. “Can you tell us about this shell? Where it’s from, what details you can find, all that.”

“Sure thing,” she says, carefully taking the bag between her fingertips and carrying it over to a tabletop 3D scanner. Pretty sure she told me about getting that _after_ she’d already charged _my_ credit card for it, and promised me I could use it whenever I wanted, just please please please don’t dispute the charge.

Ugh.  _Hackers_.

“The scan should take a few minutes, the MS reading a little longer if you want it,” she says.

“Pretty sure it’ll tell me it’s made of brass an’ gunpowder residue, but go for it,” I say, moving to look over her shoulder. “I’ve got a hunch on this, jes’ lookin’ fer confirmation.”

“Do you have to stand right there? I can’t work with people watching,” she grumbles.

“I ain’t gonna understand half what yer doin’ anyway,” I say, backing off anyway and returning to the couch.

“Who is this ‘Sombra’?” Mr. Shimada asks, his voice hidden beneath all the cooling fans and pumps and the throbbing EDM music.

“Hacker—one of the best,” I murmur back, “She’s a little shady, but hell, so am I.”

“Can you trust someone who seems to work for the highest bidder?”

“Not as far as you can throw her,” Lena whispers, leaning behind my back.

“Hey now, she an’ I go way back—it probably don’t count fer much, but it’s better than her other ‘customers’ got,” I say, frowning a bit as well. I know from experience she’s not afraid to leave someone out to dry, but I’ve given her steady work since I opened my office—that’s more than her other customers can say, too.

“Okay, I’ve got it scanned in. It scanned that fingerprint like a champ, too,” Sombra remarks. “Let me just file those off and get the exact dimensions,” she murmurs, tapping away at a holographic keyboard. “Got it. Okay, it’s 20.2 mm wide at its widest point and tapers down a bit to the shoulder, 83 mm long…”

“You search bullets with those dimensions, should only be ‘bout one result you get back,” I say, starting to grin.

“Let’s see…looks like it’s a .416 round used by—”

“The Egyptian Army,” I finish along with her, my eyes lighting up. “I knew it! Didn’t I tell y’all, I fuckin’ _knew it!_ ”

“I’m not surprised you’d recognize it right away, with _your_ background,” Sombra smirks, leaning back in her chair.

“And with it, I think I know where t’ start lookin’, too. Oh, yer an absolute _doll_ , Sombra!” I grin, giving her a hug.

“Yes, yes, I know I’m the best, let me breathe!” Sombra complains, squirming like a little kid. “Easiest couple hundred dollars I’ve ever made, though,” she adds, her fingers dipping into my pocket and fishing out my wallet.

“Yeah, sure, consider it a tip,” I laugh, plucking my wallet back before she can start rifling through my credit cards again. I’ve been burned by her enough on that front as it is. “You can go ‘head and poke around in that scan data all you like—get a head start on that 48-hour window of yers,” I smirk. “Consider _that_ a bonus.”

“Ooh, thanks,” she winks, “Always good to have insider info, right?”

“That’s how I figure. C’mon, y’all, let’s leave the hackers to their hackin’,” I say, tapping Lena on the shoulder. “We’ve got a lead to follow.”

* * *

Lena’s pissed, and I don’t know that I can afford to buy ice cream or something to make it better, after paying Sombra’s ‘fees’. I allow her the front seat on the trips back, at least, leaving me sitting next to an _incredibly_ smug Mr. Shimada. His little smirk doesn’t diminish, even as we get out of our fifth hired ride for the day.

“I’m just going home,” Lena huffs. “Think I’ve had enough illicit activity for this week, thank you.”

“Sorry, we couldn’t tell you ‘bout it,” I say, “But…well, I knew you’d take it like this.”

“Hmph!”

“Don’t tell Emily,” I add, my tone serious. “I mean it. Don’t even call her. She didn’t exactly _give_ this to us or nothin’, an’ she’s surely comin’ under heat right about now. If any of us contact her, it’ll be even worse.”

“Okay _Dad_ ,” she mutters, heading down the steps into a subway station.

“And what about us?” Mr. Shimada asks, still looking like the cat that caught the canary.

“We could always head home—get some dinner, celebrate with a little bit of my bourbon y’ liked so much,” I wink, leading him to where I left my truck.

“Indeed—I think celebration _is_ in order,” he smirks, sliding into the passenger seat and resting a hand on my knee.

I don’t think I’ve ever driven so fast on city streets.

I try not to get my hopes up by reminding myself that Mr. Shimada only flirts with me when he’s up to something, only when he’s scheming, _only when he wants something from me._ But as his hand slides farther up my thigh, his rough fingers skating along the inner seam of my pants, I find myself hoping more and more that he _does_ want something from me. After all, then he’ll have to hang around longer—ply me.

I know I shouldn’t flatter myself, though—I’m not the one holding the cards here. I’m not being plyed, I’m being played.

He’s unbuckling my belt at a red light.

_Oh, play me like a fiddle, darlin’._

I’m already half crazy by the time we pull into my parking spot, and I nearly drop my keys before I can get them in the door.

“Someone is eager,” Mr. Shimada chuckles, helping to push me through the door.

“I don’t know what you want,” I pant, shoving the door shut behind me, “But damnit, you must want it pretty bad.”

“I have enjoyed flirting with you,” Mr. Shimada purrs, pinning me against the wall. “And you have been very…receptive,” he smirks, sliding one of his thighs between my legs. “Moreso than the evening I hired you, at least.”

“You’ve been plenty hot-and-cold with me yerself,” I reply, trying not to melt into the grind of his thigh.

“We had a job to do,” Mr. Shimada says, his strong hands running down my chest.

“Job ain’t finished yet.”

“If you’d rather work,” he says, removing himself from my presence as if he were merely a dream.

“Now, I didn’t say _that_ ,” I reply quickly, and just like that he’s pinned me to the wall again, my metal arm crunching into the drywall under his powerful hand. Oh God, rough me up _…_

“Mmm, but you _did_ say we ought to celebrate,” Mr. Shimada purrs, smirking. “Now…I believe you wanted to run your fingers through my hair?”

“Oh damn…” I reach up, letting my flesh fingers thread through Mr. Shimada’s hair; something I’d been fantasizing about far more than I wanted to admit.

It’s smooth—not soft, but sleek; the strands part like water around my fingers, cold and unhindered. It’s not what I expected, but I’m sure as hell not complaining. I gently grasp his hair, leaning down and brushing my lips across his jaw. He lets out a small groan before sliding his fingers up into my mop, grabbing me and pressing my face down into the crook of his neck.

Ohh, so it’s gonna be like that.

“Don’t be so gentle,” Mr. Shimada growls, “I am _not_ a delicate flower.”

“No, sir,” I whisper, grinning into the smooth column of his neck before pressing hot, wet kisses against his pulse. “Jes’ been a while…‘fraid I might be a bit rusty.”

“Hmm…” he tones, his fingers running down my back before dragging back up, sending a shudder through my body all the way down to my dick. “I think I would like to see you laid out beneath me—are you rusty in that area, as well?”

“Only with real live cocks,” I reply, freezing slightly. Was that too crude?

Mr. Shimada doesn’t so much chuckle as _purr_ , stepping back for a moment. “Then lead the way, Mr. McCree.”

“Come on, now—if yer gonna take me to bed, least you can do is call me by my first name,” I whisper.

“Very well…Jesse,” he smirks, and I can feel myself just about melt under that voice. It’s like velvet when he lowers his voice like that…Jesus H. G. Christ.

I can’t exactly _run_ to my bedroom with my pants as tight as they are right now, but I certainly move as fast as my legs will carry me, shucking my jacket and shirt on the way and hurrying to my boot jack. My gaze rises and my vision is dominated by Mr. Shimada, his fingers undoing each button with the sort of control and precision that I could only command on my best days. His silk shirt slides down his broad shoulders, his thick biceps—holy hell. I knew he was yakuza, I knew he would have tattoos to prove it, but damn, seeing them is incredible. Koi swim up the waterfalls on his right arm and turn into the storm-riding dragons running down his left; tigers snarl on his ribcage, bright red spider lilies trail down into his pants…

“Gorgeous,” I sigh, pushing my pants down and working them past my thighs.

“You aren’t so bad yourself,” Mr. Shimada smirks. One of his rough fingers traces the line of my clavicle, down into the cleft between my pecs, past more than a few scars hidden under all my chest hair, over my abs—not as defined as they used to be, but still present if it’s a good day—before unashamedly cupping my jewels, raising a brow and grinning. I like to think it’s because he’s impressed by the weight, or…something. It’s hard to think when all my blood is down there at the moment.

“Get yourself ready for me, _Jesse_ ,” he purrs, stepping back and settling into the disused chair by my dressing table. I’d always wondered what the point of me having a chair in the bedroom was, but seeing Mr. Shimada sitting in it like a decadent king, his hair pouring over his shoulders, his legs spread lewdly and his eyes burning into me with desire, the penny’s finally dropped.

I’m more than happy to follow a few orders in the bedroom, especially when they’re given by a man like Mr. Shimada. I drop onto the edge of my bed and yank open my nightstand drawer, grabbing a half-used bottle of lube. I don’t normally move this fast when I’m taking care of business, preferring to make love to myself a little bit. I’m a hopeless romantic, what can I say? But that order has me about ready to just grab the biggest dildo I own and—

My breath hitches as my finger finds my hole, the lube warm and tingly. I pamper myself a bit, no sense in lying about that. I scoot myself around slightly and spread my legs wider, putting myself on display. Can’t imagine it’s a pretty image, but with the way Mr. Shimada’s gaze is laser-focused on my fingers, he must be enjoying the view. I can feel the heat rising in my cheeks as I reach down and spread my cheeks a little wider, my heart pounding somewhere in the region of my throat as I finger myself a little more enthusiastically. I never took myself for an exhibitionist, but I guess you learn something new every day.

“Are you always so quiet when you pleasure yourself, Jesse?” Mr. Shimada asks, watching me with intense interest and a wide smirk. I can’t see what his other hand is doing, but it’s certainly in motion—Jesus.

“Got a bit o’ stage fright,” I chuckle, taking a deep breath and letting it out in a heavy sigh, my second finger prodding in without much fuss. Hell, this is nothing for me.

“Moan for me. I have been amusing myself the whole way here by imagining what you would sound like with your mouth around my cock,” he purrs, the filthy image he’s painting prompting me to follow his order. “Hmm, I wasn’t so far off, it seems.”

“Damn, you got a filthy mind,” I moan, pausing in my work for a moment to lube up a bit more. Hell, I don’t know what kind of heat he’s packing in those pants of his; better to be prepared. My fingers slide back in like my ass was meant to take them, and I groan in satisfaction.

“You have no idea,” Mr. Shimada purrs. “Come now, Jesse. Stretch yourself. Though I appreciate the show, I wish to indulge in that rosy bud myself.”

_Holy shit_. It’s like this man has a manual of all my buttons.

My head falls back against the pillows and I work myself in earnest, scissoring and thrusting and letting out a little moan at the wet noises I’m making. God, I don’t usually get into it like this—prepping myself the way I imagine Mr. Shimada would, if he would get over here and _do something;_ firm thrusts, brutally efficient stretching, a few teasing touches against my prostate, just to keep things interesting. I can feel little drips of pre on my stomach, the air cool relief on my hot skin.

“G-god damn…that good enough, Mr. Shimada?” I ask, licking my lips and peering over at him again. For emphasis, I pour more lube down my fingers, channeling the slick inside me like a funnel.

“Hmmm…we shall see,” Mr. Shimada purrs, rising from his seat and stalking toward me, his eyes hooded and dark with hunger. “And I think,” he continues, sliding his pants down as well and climbing onto the bed, “I should like to hear you call my name, as well.”

“Oh, you think you’d like that?” I smirk, biting my lip in what I hope is a seductive motion—I’m not exactly the coquettish type, “How’d’ya like this, then? I want you to raw me, _Hanzo_ ,” I growl, my hands sliding up to hold my legs apart at the knees. I may be a big ol’ bottom, but I ain’t no shrinking violet.

“Be careful what you wish for, cowboy,” Mr. Shimada—no, _Hanzo_ smirks, his rough hands sliding up the underside of my thighs, rising higher, grasping my ankles and pushing them up toward my ears. I barely bend that way anymore, but the burn in my hamstrings isn’t entirely unpleasant. Not when there’s a gorgeous man with cold metal knees and sleek black hair ready to bury that thick, curved cock inside me. Shit, it’s been way too long… I grope for the lube and hold the bottle out to him, my breath slightly labored with how my stomach is all bunched up and how badly I need to be dicked.

Hanzo’s not interested in waiting any longer either, it seems. He slicks his cock with masterful speed and God, the way I’m bent around I can _see_ him press into me.

“Ohh, fuck,” I groan, letting my head fall back against the pillows again. I suck in a breath as he presses on, rolling his hips into me.

“Keep going,” Hanzo growls, his motions fluid and sinuous. He leans over me to keep my legs up and fists my hair again, “I want to hear every obscenity you know,” he smirks.

“Shit, baby, we’re gonna be here a while,” I laugh, my eyelids sliding shut as he tugs my head to the side, returning the hot, needy mouthing I gave him earlier. “Oh Jesus, that’s good…”

“You enjoy pain, then?” Hanzo asks, his lips curving wickedly against my throat. God, I can feel every hair in his beard against my skin—

“I like bein’ rough, n-not so much into the S&M stuff,” I reply, though speaking is a bit tough with the air being pushed out of my lungs by a big fat dick.

“Pity,” Hanzo purrs, “You would look _gorgeous_ in rope.”

Noam fucking Chomsky couldn’t make an intelligible word out of the sound that I make at _that_ little suggestion.

“Fuckin’…sex demon,” I grunt, panting as he pick ups the pace. My metal hand slides up over his tattooed shoulder, holding on as he really starts fucking me in earnest. “Ah, yeah, God, wreck my hole,” I moan, quickly wrapping a fist around myself with my free hand.

“So…so crude,” Hanzo remarks. It’s the first time I’ve heard him stutter or pause for something other than dramatic effect. He doesn’t say any more, just the low groans and hums that leave him as he pounds into me. The sound of flesh meeting flesh is ridiculously erotic—the wet noises we’re making with every motion forces an almost embarrassed groan out of me. I can’t really say I used ‘too much’ lube, since it’s blowing my mind how smooth he’s moving, and _goddamn_ I feel so full already with the extra lube, but the noises are just obscene.

“F-fuck…” I’m whimpering—God I’m a mess, but sex ain’t supposed to be pretty. His hand leaves my hair and his fingers run along my cheek, and it’s almost romantic, except for my little chuffs and whispers of ‘shit’ every few seconds. I tip my head into his palm and in moments his thumb is at my lips, I’m sucking him into my mouth, I hear _him_ whisper ‘fuck’ for once—I’m calling that a big win.

But then his hand is gone again, running down my pec, squeezing—he’s leaning farther back, throwing his body into each thrust, rattling the headboard of my bed. His head tips back, his long black hair sticking to his cheeks and neck, and it’s all I can see, my vision is hazy, my head is swimming, my fingers and toes are just gone, tingling as my body focuses on _just one thing_.

When I cum, it’s almost a surprise. My thighs slam together, pinning Hanzo in place as my body twitches and throbs, pulsing around his cock and absolutely wrecking me a second time. God, it’s been a long time since I got to come around a hot shaft like this. I arch up into Hanzo, humming in pleasure as he ruts into my ass, chasing his climax too; the air feels like it’s crackling as he lets out a groan, his hands groping and squeezing at my pecs for a few long, teasing minutes.

“Mmm, you like these?” I ask, my fingers rising and flicking at one of my own nipples and smirking.

“Hmmm…soft,” Hanzo purrs, his fingers running through my chest hair.

“Hey now, I ain’t that chubby, am I?” I ask, chuckling. I wince as he slides out, his cock softening to an almost cute level. Damn, he’s more of a grower than I anticipated.

“No, you are quite well-built, for a man of your age,” Hanzo says, dropping to the bed next to me with a sigh. “And you are a _very_ accommodating bottom,” he smirks, looping a cool metal leg around mine.

“Thanks,” I sigh, reaching for a half-smoked cigar and the lighter on my nightstand. I started smoking this poor thing days ago, but I don’t have the heart to throw it out or the energy to start a new one. “Smoke?” I offer, lighting the end and giving it a quick puff.

“How considerate,” he smiles, accepting and puffing quietly on the end. Damn, it’s sexy watching a man smoke a cigar, and I let him know exactly how hot it makes him look. “That’s not a bad cigar,” he remarks, passing it back to me.

“It was better when it was fresh,” I shrug, ashing it in the tray on my nightstand. “But I try to only keep good cigars.”

“Your taste in cigars and whisky is far superior to your taste in fashion,” he purrs, reaching for the cigar again. “Perhaps we can trade recommendations once the job is finished?”

“You sayin’ you won’t lose my number the second we’re done?”

“Surely not,” Hanzo smirks, sliding his smooth carbon fiber leg against mine in a teasing gesture. “I need a man like you working for me—resourceful, connected, not in my family’s pocket…”

“Heh, I ain’t got nothin’ in my toolbox quite like you, neither,” I purr, tracing a finger along the back of the tiger on his ribs. “Yer gonna need a cover story if yer hangin’ around me, might as well keep you ‘on the payroll’,” I smirk.

“Who is on whose payroll?” Hanzo asks, smirking as he blows a cloud of smoke into my face.

I open my mouth to continue our banter, but there’s a sudden pounding on the front door.

“Jesse McCree! NYPD, we have a warrant for your arrest!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _art by[hiddeninthunder](http://hiddeninthunder.tumblr.com)_


	8. The Tombs

It’s a damn good thing the cops at least let me get decent before carting me downtown—I’ve been naked in an unfriendly room three too many times for my taste.

It’s also a damn good thing I had pretty extensive training in resisting interrogation. My lawyer is on vacation somewhere in the Northwest, and the department hasn’t been able to track down a public defender for me. Not that they seem particularly eager—after all, I’ve beaten them to the punch more than once, and nobody likes losing face.

But until I get a lawyer in here, I can’t talk. I can’t say I didn’t steal the evidence from King’s Row—or ask how they even found out about that so quickly). I can’t say I haven’t been to Cairo or Budapest or Amsterdam—not since Blackwatch, anyway, let alone committed any crimes there (again, not since Blackwatch). I can’t even say I have no idea what the hell they’re talking about—which I don’t, on at least most of these charges.

“Come on, McCree,” the officer in the room—Kowalczyk, what a stereotypical cop name around here—says, leaning on the table. “I know most of these charges are bullshit, for sure—I know you weren’t in Budapest last month, _you_ know you weren’t in Budapest last month. If you’d just talk with us a bit, I’m sure we could get this whole thing straightened out.”

I’ve silently acknowledged that the cuffs I’m wearing are symbolic; I could crush them with my left hand, and now we’re on to yet another time-honored symbol: the good cop/bad cop routine. Only they know I’m a ‘bad cop’, so they’re not even trying on that front. This good cop, however, has been at it for about two hours. The man’s gotta be jonesin’ for a smoke break or something at this point. Or at least the bathroom.

“…If we call that cute secretary of yours, will you talk to her?” he offers, gesturing to the telecomm in the middle of the table. I sigh. I’m getting really sick of this ‘calling Lena a secretary’ thing. I might have to promote her just to make that go away. She’d be ‘the cute detective’, then—shiny badge and everything. Ha, won’t that be a trip?

‘Won’t be trippin’ very far if yer in the slammer for 25-to-life.’

‘Yeah, yeah, that won’t happen. I’ll figure something out here. And hell, if I don’t, I’ll figure my way out of the cell.’

‘Oh yeah, _that’ll_ endear me to the boys.’

“Hey, Mickie, call back that ‘Lena Oxton’,” Kowalczyk calls down the hallway. Within moments, the screen lights up with the same standard ‘Calling. . .’ animation that every system seems to come with.

“What do you need _now?_ ”

Oh, that’s a great start. I hide my smirk, but just barely.

“This is Officer Kowalczyk, down at the precinct again—”

“Yeah yeah, I figured that from the Caller ID. Look, I’m _trying_ to get a lawyer, okay? You lot keep them pretty busy around here, don’t you?”

“Listen, your boss wants to talk to you. Isn’t that right, McCree?” he asks, leaning around the vid screen.

“Jesse McCree, Lieutenant, 3945-45.”

“Oh come on, we haven’t treated you _that_ badly, have we?” Kowalczyk frowns, muttering something about my ‘real name’ on his way out of the room. The lights for the camera in the corner goes out, but I know they’re still listening—Lena ain’t my attorney, after all.

“Right then, let’s see what I can remember,” Lena mutters, putting on a bit of a show. “Um, you’ve been denied bail, right?”

My silence is a yes. Pretty sure ‘murder’ is somewhere in the list of charges, so that ain’t surprising.

“And Sam isn’t going to be back in town for a few more days—I could ask him to make it snappy, but I’m sure he wouldn’t appreciate it.”

My silence is my agreement. He would probably let me sit in a cell for a few days anyway if we asked him to hurry back.

“I’m meeting up with your new secretary now. We should be able to get somebody for you, but if you don’t hear from us in about 24 hours, you’ll probably be stuck with a public defender.”

My silence is a plea for her to hurry up—if she doesn’t, then I’m gonna be forced to bust out of here myself, and nobody wants that. I’m way too good at it, and I don’t particularly want to shutter my business and move to another city. In spite of all its warts, I’m comfortable here.

Well, not _here_ in the jail.

“Mr. McCree—”

Oh shit. _Hanzo…_ I know that one of the crimes that I got slapped with was one _he_ committed. The guilt in his eyes tells me he knows that, too.

“We are doing everything we can to get you out. Don’t worry.”

My silence is ‘this is me worried—goddammit, don’t you go committing another crime to get me out of here’.

There’s no chance of me getting arraigned before tomorrow morning, which means I’ve got about 12 hours to figure my way out of the Tombs downtown. I know there was a jailbreak attempt about a hundred years ago with an acetylene torch, but I don’t exactly have one of those built into my arm. Still, making a door where there previously wasn’t one is probably the best way out. No reason to let them think that my arm is unusual in any way—or let them know I’m recording the way in with my eye.

“Are they moving you soon?”

I blink once.

“Right, we’ll see you downtown tomorrow,” Lena says, winking at the time. Alright, guess I’ll be seeing ‘em around midnight, then. Hopefully, I’ll be able to see the getaway car from my cell…

Makes me glad I kept my pockets empty when I went in—having to then break into inventory to get, say, my phone back would be a massive pain in the ass on top of all this.

I sigh and reach forward to end the connection, my eyes flicking between Hanzo and Lena. Between the three of us, we might actually have a successful jailbreak on our hands tonight.

* * *

I’ve been given a cell by myself—unusual around here. I figure it’s because they can’t take my arm, it’s a ‘medical device’ that’s bolted to me, after all, but the risk of using it to hurt someone else is too high. It’s still metal, even if they think it’s just a plain ol’ prosthetic.

Works for me. I’d rather not deal with a narc in here. Or end up getting charged with a big ol’ prison break rather than a little itty-bitty one-man breakout.

I can’t see a clock from my cell, but I can keep track of time with my eye. The shift should be changing over soon—my best chance at breaking out of here. I climb up on my bunk and peer out the window to the busy streets below. It’s way too narrow for me to squeeze through, and I don’t fancy seeing how well I held up after a 9-story fall, neither.

A flash of blue on the sidewalk—good, Lena’s here. Right on schedule, too; it _is_ technically ‘tomorrow’ now.

Getting out of here is basically going to be a question of ‘how fast can I run’, since I haven’t exactly examined the blueprints for this place or formulated possible exit strategies. Trying to extrapolate possible exits is _begging_ for my eye to burn out and send shards of silicon into my brain, so we’ll be doing this the old-fashioned way, it seems.

Well, _one_ of the old-fashioned ways, I’m sure.

I check the infrared on the hall outside before I start squeezing the bars open—slightly more considerate than destroying the lock, I figure. Then they only have to replace the door.

There’s no quiet way to wrench apart the door to a jail cell. The screeching, the squealing protest of the steel against my fingers. Titanium and carbon fiber is just tougher stuff than even New York City expects its criminals to be made of, I guess. Still, it sounds God awful, like some sort of dying animal, and no matter how quickly or slowly you try to do it, it’s loud—like trying to undo velcro in a quiet room.

Nobody’s hit the alarm yet, though, which worries me. There’s no way there’s not some sort of silent alarm system in here, right? To lull you into a false sense of security… I head down the hallway, and a different alarm begins to sound.

“Hey! _Hey!_ This motherfucker’s outta his cell!”

I can’t tell if there are more guys cheering me on or cussing me out as I barrel down the hallway, slamming my fist like a sledgehammer down to break off the door handle and shouldering it open.

“What the fuck…?!”

I lock eyes with the last person I want to run into while attempting a prison break. A guard whose got a stun baton in hand and his gun half out of its holster.

I can feel that old Blackwatch training taking over again, guiding my hands. I catch his swing—his off-hand is clumsier, slower, more telegraphed—and throw the heel of my metal hand into his chin. I can feel him go limp for a moment as I catch his face, and I try not to slam his head into the concrete _too_ hard as I finish the takedown. This poor asshole is just trying to do his job, after all. The crack I hear tells me I…wasn’t as gentle as I’d hoped. He’s still breathing, though, which is the best I could hope for at this point.

I drag him back around behind the door and strip off his uniform, throwing it on and crushing the barrel of his gun. No sense in turning on an armed enemy, and some small part of me is still thinking ‘if I get caught escaping _with_ a gun, it’ll just be worse, won’t it?’

There’s no room for getting caught. I’ve got to get out of here, now that I’ve officially broken out of detention, assaulted an officer, and defaced public property. But hey, this guy’s keys ought to make escaping a bit easier. I can take the elevator now, at least.

Everything in here has a vaguely nautical feel, with the powder blues and the sharkskin gray sealing paint on the floors and walls. Even the elevator somehow feels like I’m on an old-school naval destroyer. There’s no obnoxious music, just the sounds of the old pulley system hauling the cars up and down through the shaft.

The car stops at floor 5—too soon. No, no, nonono too soon—

Four armed guards are staring at me, their brows furrowed.

“What happened to your uniform?”

“Oh!” I look down at my somewhat ill-fitting uniform. “Fucking dry cleaners sent me home with the wrong order. Everybody up on 12th floor’s been giving me shit all night,” I improvise.

The moment stretches on too long for my taste. “Well, this elevator’s going down, so…”

“Dammit,” one of the guards groans, punching the ‘up’ button again as the doors slide shut.

“Holy shit,” I whisper, trying not to look too suspicious on the security camera. How have they not noticed me yet? How have they not stopped the elevator between floors?

My paranoia only grows as the doors to the visitor floor slide open, revealing the empty visitation room. My ill-gotten keycard opens the door between the elevator and the main hall—just one more elevator ride and I’m off to meet my getaway car—

— _BOOM_

The explosion is cacophonous, but still relatively small. That can only mean one thing as the smoke clears.

“Hurry up, sir! That explosion’s bound to draw a few bobbies’ attention!”

“What the ever living _hell_ , Lena?!” I snap, squeezing through the hole. “Blowin’ holes in the wall, are y’all insane?”

“Well the only break-out we could find was someone who used a blowtorch to get through the wall, and I didn’t have one of those,” Lena says, frowning at my displeasure—even though I’d had the exact same idea earlier.

“I had this!” I reply, holding up the keycard.

“We couldn’t count on that,” she calls, hurrying back to the elevator bank. “Come on, Mr. Shimada took care of the security system. We’ve got to go, though!”

Hanzo did it? Sombra would have been a better choice…and her number would be in my call history. Why didn’t they call her for help and just tell her to bill me later?

Hanzo meets us at the elevator bank, stripping off his gloves as he approaches.

“It is good to see you again, Mr. McCree,” he says. There are flecks of blood on his cheeks and odd stains and tears on his pant legs, of all places. My stomach lurches a bit as I glance at the security station behind him. The lights inside are out, but I can see warm splatters on the glass in infrared.

“Jesus Christ,” I whisper under my breath. Something tells me Mr. Shimada wasn’t quite as considerate while ‘taking care of security’ as I was upstairs.

“We can get a few blocks underground through the sewers,” Lena explains as we ride to the ground floor, “We’ve got a car waiting near the subway station.”

“Gimme my phone—gotta make a call to get the heat off our trail,” I say, holding my hand out for my phone.

“I tried calling your hacker _friend_ ,” Lena huffs, a certain amount of venom in her tone. “No answer. Just a message—my Spanish isn’t very good, but I’m pretty sure it was ‘So long, and thanks for all the fish’. Cheeky little tosser,” she grumbles.

I grind my teeth. That’s not exactly the term I would have used for her…

“Mr. McCree, Miss Oxton and I have discussed this and we think that Sombra—”

“Yeah…yeah,” I sigh as Lena tries to surreptitiously lift up a manhole cover. “She turned us in.”

Mr. Shimada casually drops into the hole and tosses his gloves into the sewer water, watching as the runoff from the streets swiftly carries the evidence away. His shoes are quick to join them, leaving his prosthetics bare. Carefully holding one of his legs, a blade flicks out from his ankle—bloodstained. He tears some of the ruined fabric from his pants and wipes the blades clean-ish, before also tossing some of the finest cleaning rags in the city into the rushing water. He’s methodical in his preliminary cleaning—experienced. Confident.

Even yakuza princes have to be able to do the dirty work, I guess.

I sigh and pull off my stolen uniform, tossing it in the water as well. No sense in keeping incriminating souvenirs.

“We took the liberty of packing a few of your things,” Mr. Shimada announces over the rushing water, “We won’t be able to return to your home or office for a while, I suspect. Miss Oxton and I have been putting everything in order until it is safe to return—though I expect your lawyer will be displeased with all of our efforts today.”

I can’t fucking take this anymore—what the hell is even _happening_? I’ve hit roadblocks and snafus ever since I came out of my mama, but this? Only thing that comes close was when I got recruited into Overwatch, and Reyes sure as shit ain’t gonna be there to offer me a get-out-of-jail-free card this time, there’s no saving me from prison this time…or Mr. Shimada…or Lena—

“God _dammit!_ ” I yell, punching the side of the tunnel in frustration. “We were doin’ _so damn good_ this afternoon!”

“Don’t worry, sir,” Lena soothes, ushering me down the tunnel. “We’ll get this figured out one way or another. We’ve been through worse, haven’t we?”

I suppose—but I’m not keen on repeating any of that shit, and not on my own. Being a wild child was a lot easier when I had an internationally supported paramilitary organization backing up all of my stupid decisions. And when I was a drifter. Now that I’ve half settled, though…

Lena peeks up from one manhole for a moment before clambering out, ushering us out of the tunnels and keeping an eye out. After all, three wet people climbing out of the sewers is unusual, even by New Yorker standards. “This way, sir!” she chirps, leading us to a rented SUV, more than a few model years newer than my truck.

I groan as I slump into the back seat, pulling my phone off the charger. They really pulled out all the stops setting up our getaway. Shimada’s got experience with skipping town in style, I guess. I tap in Sombra’s number and wait for the usual fake messages and delays. Instead, a recording kicks on almost immediately.

“ _Hasta luego, y gracias por el pescado!_ ” she sing-songs. Yeah, Lena’s translation was accurate. I rub my eyes and sigh. After a few moments, she continues. “Sorry, Jessito—by now, you’ve probably noticed I’ve cleared out. Should be, oh, about 72 hours since you got taken in, so I’m _long_ gone,” she explains, clearly not anticipating my little jailbreak. “I know you’re good, so I wanted at least a bit of a head start before you got back on the trail… Oh, and thanks for leaving the evidence with me—I know someone who’s been _dying_ to know where that bullet went.”

“We gotta hit Sombra’s place,” I say, hanging up.

“She’s probably already skipped town,” Lena replies, pulling away from the curb.

“Don’t matter—gotta start somewhere.”

“We cannot delay,” Mr. Shimada says, “We have to leave the city before they track us down.”

“We gotta know where we’re goin’ first,” I say. “Sombra’s place. Now.”

* * *

The door to Sombra’s place is hanging wide open when we arrive—the silence is unnerving. Even worse is the emptiness…although I suppose all of her things still being here would have been a bit more ominous.

The only thing she left was one computer, the sinister, angular ‘T’ symbol on the screen filling the room with red light.


	9. Santa Fe

I sigh, letting my head hit the window of the plane a little harder than is comfortable—but at this point, it’s not like it’s making anything any worse.

We left all my shit in a storage unit before hopping on the first flight to Santa Fe…a place I hadn’t ever planned on going back to, really. Too much bad blood seeped over there from Arizona—a place I _doubly_ don’t plan on going back to ‘til I’m ready to get shot dead by some folks. Still, I’ve got a few people I can still call friends around there and more than a few enemies who are dumb enough to be fooled by a simple disguise.

I can make this work.

I _have_ to make this work.

“Jesse?”

I turn my head and see the worried face of Mr. Shimada. I suppose if he’s calling me ‘Jesse’ right now, it’s only fair to call him ‘Hanzo’, even in my head.

“Whut.”

“I…truly am sorry. This very quickly got out of hand. I didn’t mean to bring such chaos,” he murmurs, sitting next to me and looking appropriately contrite.

“Y’knew what you were bringin’,” I sigh. “…And I knew what I was signin’ on for when I took a yakuza prince on as a client,” I add, trying to dispel at least some of the tension.

“If you want to drop me as a client, I understand,” Hanzo says, his head bowing slightly in an imitation of hanging in shame. I think we both know this man hasn’t known shame for quite a long time.

Well, no. He knew it when he tried to kill his brother. Must’ve, or he wouldn’t have tried to save him.

“If we stop,” I begin, my voice heavier than I anticipated, “Then everything we’ve done is worth jack shit. Everything we’ve done was jes’ pointless crime. Now I ain’t about to go gettin’ myself into all this trouble an’ having nothin’ to show for it,” I say, looking over at him. I can see a flicker of hope behind his eyes, and it almost brings a smile to my face. “Hell, we’ve come this far and spilt this much blood. I’m goin’ the distance on this one. ‘Sides,” I add, glancing down at the passing countryside, the farms and forests reclaiming the scars left by the Crisis.

“I got a feeling that we’re about to get a break in this case.”

* * *

Sombra said she wasn’t surprised I knew the bullet, given my background, but she wasn’t talking about my time in Overwatch. Sure, an Egyptian sniper was one of my commanders and taught me damn near everything I know about long guns, but that wasn’t where I first met Egyptian Army anti-Omnic/anti-materiel sniper rounds.

I met them here, in outlaw biker territory.

It takes three calls before I get one of my old contacts in the area to answer, and another two before they believe I am who I say I am. Folks around here remember me from when I was young and stupid, after all, and they haven’t seen hide nor hair from me in 20 years. Rick, the only guy I kept on the line, flat out said he thought I was dead since that Overwatch raid where I got recruited. He’s even willing to have a sit-down with me since he doesn’t know much about what happened after that—lots of these guys are ‘off-the-grid’ types, after all, and haven’t seen anything out of Overwatch since the end of the Crisis.

“Do I _really_ have to wear this?” Lena asks, holding up the outfit I selected for her. It’s tomboyish as hell, which I didn’t think would be a problem for her—but it’s also grungy since I picked the oldest, most worn-out clothes from the secondhand store to dress ourselves in and then stomped on it in the parking lot to give it a touch of road-worn authenticity.

“Yeah, and pitch yer voice down. We’ve gotta pass you off fer a boy; Deadlock don’t take girls on as members.”

“I’ll bet they don’t take Brits, neither,” she mutters.

“So talk like yer makin’ fun of me behind my back,” I wink. “You’ve got my full permission.”

“Yew mean I ken tawlk like theeyus?” she drawls, spitting for emphasis. The wad doesn’t go far—I’m disappointed more in myself than her for failing in her education.

“Uh, sure. Let’s just stick a cigarette in yer mouth and it’ll sound a little less…less,” I say, suppressing a laugh. “And Hanzo,” I continue, giving him a once over as he eyes his new outfit with just as much disgust as Lena. “…I think you’ll probably be best off as the ‘strong, silent type’.”

“I’ve got a better idea,” Mr. Shimada says.

“What’s that?”

“How about I throw myself into the Grand Canyon.”

“Aww, c’mon—”

“I would rather go naked into this meeting than wear this disguise,” he says, his expression dead serious. I don’t even have a minute to relish that little mental image.

“What about a different disguise, then?” Lena offers.

* * *

I know Lena likes motorcycles, but she likes the fast, flashy, high-pitched ones; she rides the beat-up old bike I’ve wrangled for her like she’s helping me move my furniture to a 10th story apartment. Hanzo follows us in the nicest car we could possibly rent—the car is nice enough to support his cover story, but the fact that he’s driving himself kind of makes it suspect.

At least it’ll be suspect if Rick finds a second brain cell.

“Alright, y’all,” I sigh as I cut the engine on my bike in front of a run-down bar, “Been a long-ass day fer all of us, let’s just get this done and find somewhere t’ put our heads down.”

Lena pulls her helmet off and spits an enormous glob of I-don’t-even-want-to-know-what onto the dusty pavement. She must’ve been saving that the entire time we were on the road. “Sounds good,” she says, her voice pitched down as far as she can manage—still sounds about like a 14-year-old, though.

“You that dedicated to the cover, there?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.

“There was a bug in my mouth for the last 10 kilometers,” she explains, her put-on accent slipping.

“Shall we head inside?” Hanzo asks, tugging at his sleeves lightly as he steps out of his rental car. It had taken us about half an hour to find a suit that fit around his physique and looked like it belonged on a yakuza prince—pale with pinstripes and a powder blue silk undershirt, barely even buttoned. Oughta be a crime for a man to look that damn pretty in a suit.

“Yeah, Jack Sprat ‘n I’ll go in first, scope the place out, then we’ll call ya in when it’s clear,” I say, turning to the door and pushing it open.

The jukebox wheezes out music that’s about 50 years out of date, and even with the clean air laws passed however many years ago, a haze of cigarette smoke has settled over everything in here.

“Hey—no colors,” the bartender calls, frowning. I sigh and shuck off my knock-off biker cut, ducking back out to stow it in my saddle bag.

“Looked clear to me,” I say, “Let’s head inside. Lose the vest, ‘Jack’,” I wink.

“Why?” Lena asks, though she looks pretty grateful to be rid of the leather.

“Lotta places around here don’t allow biker vests or any other gang colors—they too much trouble,” I explain. “Hanzo, you might want to button your shirt up a bit, too—jes’ to be safe,” I add, leading the way back into the bar.

The three of us double the current population inside this dive, and picking Rick out from the other patrons isn’t hard.

“Rick, ya ol’ sonuvabitch,” I grin, slapping him on the shoulder.

“Jesus Christ, McCree, I thought you were dead!” Rick laughs, pulling me into a slap-heavy hug.

“Yeah, you said that on the phone,” I say. “This here’s Jack Sprat, me n’ him are security fer Mr. Tachibana, here.”

“Who?”

“Tachibana Sojiro,” Hanzo says, offering a slight bow. “Of the Hachidaime-Sumigawa-kai.”

“Bless you,” Rick says. “So what’re ya doin’ back in town, McCree?”

“Lookin’ to buy some stuff,” I say, dropping my voice a bit. “After that assassination in London, everybody’s expectin’ trouble in the coming weeks. We’re lookin’ to buy anti-Omnic stuff.”

“What sort of stuff?” Rick asks, settling into his chair again.

“Well, what’s Deadlock got on hand?” I ask. “And what’s comin’ in next?”

“It’s like you said—everybody’s lookin’ for stuff,” Rick says. “We’ve got plenty of SMGs, rifles—even got a few RPGs. Seriously heavy hardware’s coming in this week, too,” he grins.

“My organization does not require weapons,” Hanzo says, “What we need is ammunition.”

“Sure, sure, we’ve got ammo. Less of it lately, though,” Rick says, “It’s really been moving, just like you said.”

“What’ve we got, though? …Any of those old Egyptian sniper rounds?” I ask. “We used to practically use ‘em as poker chips back in the day.”

“Ooh, might be tough. I mean, we’ve got ‘em, but there’s a pretty big buyer who picks up regular shipments,” Rick says. “They’ve got dibs on a lot of the heavy machinery, too. Mexican EMPs,” he adds in a low whisper. “They’re the best—only Russian EMPs even come close, and they’re way smaller.”

“Think Deadlock would be interested in a little bidding war?” I ask, raising a brow.

“Probably,” Rick shrugs, “Talon, not so much.”

_Talon._ That matches the ‘T’ logo Sombra left in her place. I glance over at Lena and Hanzo—we’re all making the same mental note.

“That is something that our two organizations can discuss, perhaps,” Hanzo says, choosing his words carefully.

“Might be,” Rick says, “I don’t have their number or anything, so you’ll have to meet up with them yourself.”

“Think you can point us to where the sale’s gonna be?” I ask.

* * *

It’s not until we’re settled into our hotel room that we finally get a chance to talk freely among ourselves.

_“Talon,"_  Lena hisses, dropping onto her uncomfortable bed and yanking her boots off, “Should’ve known.”

“Yeah, they’ve been in the assassination business fer a long while, among other things,” I nod. “Looks like they hired a graphic designer since the last time I heard their name, though—their logo used to just be, y’know…a talon.”

“I was still lost in space when Agent Lacroix started Overwatch operations against Talon,” Lena begins, looking up at me as if it’s her fault somehow. “Targeting his wife like they did to get to him…it’s inhuman. Taking down Doomfist was my proudest moment in Overwatch…even if it didn’t bring back Lacroix and his wife,” she sighs.

“It makes perfect sense,” Hanzo murmurs, slowly sinking onto the other bed and peeling his jacket off. “Talon has been making connections with powerful entities around the world. My family was approached several times about buying in.”

“Buying in?” I ask, frowning, “Sounds t’ me like they’re looking for investors.”

“They certainly are,” Hanzo nods, his expression grim. “They wouldn’t give much information on what they were planning, but they promised an excellent return on investment. War profiteering certainly _does_ pay well. I can only imagine what re-igniting the Omnic Crisis would do for such investments…and tension has already skyrocketed since Mondatta’s murder.”

“I’m thinkin’ just about the same thing. No wonder they’re buyin’ EMPs and such, too—to keep proddin’ at Omnic communities, stirrin’ up trouble,” I say, as if detonating an EMP around Omnics was on par with posting up anti-Omnic flyers, rather than the equivalent of sneaking a suitcase nuke into a city.

“They sure picked the right place to start, they did,” Lena says, flopping back on the bed. “Tension never really went down after the Uprising. Number 10 used it as justification for anti-Omnic measures. It’d be easy to start a fire there with hardly anything—let alone Mondatta’s assassination.”

“It was never just about London,” I say, sitting in the chair tucked away in the corner of the room. “Talon’s philosophy is all about social Darwinism—peace makes the whole ‘struggle for survival’ thing kind of a hard sell. So you kill the most famous peace activist in the world, the one who’s been bridging human-Omnic relations for two decades…you kill him, you kill the peace.”

“Surely not,” Lena pipes up, sitting upright again. “Mondatta’s message is stronger than that.”

“His message might be, but we humans ain’t,” I sigh, “It took a war fer our survival to bring us together in the first place, and once the Crisis was over, lotta folks went right back t’ being hateful all ‘round. It happens every time, Lena. Mondatta, Baha’u’llah, Jesus, Buddha—all of ‘em came to talk about peace an’ unity and look at what it’s got us in the world. Their messages jes’ became whole new ways t’ divide ourselves instead of comin’ together. It’s human nature.”

“We can be better than our nature. We have to be,” Lena pleads.

“It is the greatest struggle, against the darker impulses of one’s nature,” Hanzo muses. “Without that struggle, we would be without art, without poetry and song, without philosophy and science and all that makes us human.”

Somehow, I don’t think that’s much comfort to Lena right now—no matter how right Hanzo is.

“Lena, I hear ya, darlin’, I really do,” I say. “It’s folks like us what help everyone else t’ be better than their natures. If we do the fightin’, then that’s one demon they ain’t gotta tussle with. They can focus on the poetry an’ philosophy…an’ jes’ the little daily things, like not callin’ yer boss a dipshit.”

“I think even Mondatta would approve of fighting Talon—a conflict which prevents an even larger conflict results in less violence in the world,” Hanzo says.

“I’m not saying I won’t fight—I want to punch that assassin right in the mouth,” Lena frowns. “…I just know it won’t stop anything now. It’s too late to _stop it_ …and I hate it. I hate that I couldn’t stop it…”

“Hey now,” I say, forcing myself out of the awkward chair and moving to sit next to her, “You n’ I both know we can’t win ‘em all. Look what happened with Overwatch…we couldn’t win ‘em all. But you miss one hundred percent of the shots you don’t take, right?”

“Right,” she sighs, slumping against me with an exhausted sigh.

“You put up a good fight, darlin’,” I smile, giving her a little squeeze. “I couldn’t be prouder of you, Lena.”

“Thanks, love,” she smiles weakly, taking a deep breath. “I think that’s enough philosophy for one night, don’t you?”

“Yeah,” I nod, standing up. “We’ve got a lotta work t’ do ahead of this weapon sale and not a lotta time t’ do it. Best get some shut-eye.”

* * *

A slight jostle in the middle of the night wakes me up. In the dark, I can see Hanzo curled up around me, his face much more relaxed than the last time I saw him asleep. His brow wrinkles as I try to shift away, and relaxes as I move back into place.

I can’t take this one little moment of peace away, no matter how uncomfortably warm I am.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _art by[hiddeninthunder](http://hiddeninthunder.tumblr.com)_


	10. Deadlocked

“Jesse. Oi, Jesse!”

My eyes shoot open at the sound of an unfamiliar voice, but there’s nobody around except Hanzo, still asleep, and Lena, grinning like a madman.

“I figured out how to modify my voice with my accelerator!” she exclaims—hearing a bass come out of her mouth is damn unsettling. In the dim light from the bathroom, I can see that she’s drawn on a ‘beard’ of about five scraggly hairs with eyeliner—she must’ve found old pictures of me in the gang and modeled her facial hair on me. Oughta dock her pay for that... “It’s going to affect my reaction time a bit, so hopefully we don’t have any nasty encounters.”

“Ain’t plannin’ on it,” I say, sitting up and stretching. “I’d say we should all get up and shower, but considering the crowd we’re tryin’ to sneak in with, it’d be a bit of a giveaway. Hanzo can probably shower, though--he’s our client in this scenario.”

“‘m awake,” Hanzo mumbles, sitting up with a groan. “What an uncomfortable bed…”

“Not on account of the company, surely,” I say with a sleepy wink before rising. “I’ll put the coffee on, y’all finish gettin’ ready. Meeting’s after lunch, but we need t’ scout the area a bit an’ break it down.”

* * *

Deadlock’s security is _way_ better than I remember, now that Talon has a vested interest in their products. Thankfully, though, most of the guys who knew me from my days in the gang are dead, locked up, or elsewhere, at least as far as I can tell right now. Still, don’t stop ‘em from hassling us the whole way in.

“What the hell is this?” one of the patches asks, tapping Lena’s accelerator with the back end of a Maglite.

“Life support,” ‘Jack Sprat’ replies—damn, that voice modulation ain’t never gonna sound right, coming out of her.

“So what happens if I take it off?” he asks, frowning.

“My heart explodes,” ‘Jack’ lies smoothly. “Real messy death. And it’ll pro’lly electrocute you if you try, pardner.”

‘Nice touch,’ I think, smirking to myself as I get my arm wanded again and again by another junior patch.

“Nice, uh, ink?” he remarks, gesturing to my arm plate.

“Yeah, had club ink there ‘fore I mangled it in a wreck. Couldn’t exactly get it replaced when I got my new arm—somethin’ ‘bout ‘illegal gangs’,” I wink.

“Damn shame,” he says, shaking his head. “Ain’t never tipped over that bad.”

“Well, lawman don’t care much about Deadlock extremities,” I say—it’s so easy to say when it’s the truth.

“Jesus—so were you in prison without an arm?” he asks, wide-eyed. “I mean, they’d give you a temp, right?”

“Bobby, if you wanna suck his dick, just say so—if not, quit asking personal questions!” Lena’s guard scolds, finally nudging her past him.

‘Bobby’ chuckles nervously, looking up at me. “I, uh…I _don’t_ want to suck your dick. N-not that I’m sure it isn’t nice and all,” he adds nervously. God, I remember being that half-scared little sprout in the club—but the half of me that wasn’t scared was all piss and vinegar. This kid isn’t climbing the ranks anytime soon with this attitude.

“Just…save it, kid,” I sigh, shaking my head. “Am I done?”

“Uh, yessir,” Bobby says, quickly handing back my gun and waving me through.

“Having fun?” Hanzo asks, raising a brow and smirking.

“Shut up, _sir_ ,” I mutter, leading my crew inside.

The inside of the warehouse looks like the inside of just about every other Deadlock warehouse ever looked, although the grade of tech housed here has increased in tandem with the world arms race. There’s still the old reliables—AKs and ARs and M4s, MGLs, TEC-9s, everything you’d expect your friendly neighborhood arms dealers to have in stock. But then there’s the new kids on the block; pulse carbines, heat-seeking RPGs, a precision-guided SAM battery, stacks of small-scale Russian EMP devices, hell, even an updated 21st century Davy Crockett, sans nuke. I’m sure it’s sold separately.

The other difference between this warehouse and what I remember from my errant youth is the lighting—you can actually see where the hell you’re going in here. It looks like a real life storage facility. Professional. Clean. Neatly labeled. I guess the sort of money Talon can provide means Deadlock can afford to make things look nice these days, rather than trading guns for food and gas like we did in the past. The border used to look a lot more like Australia back in my day—I’d say this is a nice change, except for the benefactors behind it. At least when I was riding with ‘em, we were free, not chained to Talon as a nameless, faceless resource provider.

Jesus, I need to get this cut off ASAP—it’s got my head on wrong.

“Who the hell are you?”

My attention gets focused immediately. A grizzled man about my age (though with how hard the life is, he might be younger) approaches us cautiously, his pistol drawn as he stands between us and a handful of large crates labeled ‘huevos frescos’. Gotta be the EMP devices. I can see his patch reads ‘Treasurer’—the rest of the bigwigs are probably in the office.

“James MacLeod,” I call back, “I’m here with a prospect runnin’ security for my client, Mr. Tachibana. He’s lookin’ into some hardware—didn’t Rick tell y’all we were coming?”

“Rick told us McCree was coming,” he growls, his gun slowly rising.

“ _McCree?_ ” I ask, cackling. “God, Rick is such a dumbass. You think Jesse fuckin’ McCree would ever show his sorry ass around here again, the fuckin’ rat?”

“I was kinda hopin’ he would,” the man replies, looking me up and down. If this guy ever knew me from the old days, there’s no way he’d recognize me now. My voice finally stopped cracking once I left, and I managed to grow a real beard and fill out my jeans once I had a diet other than the shit food at the diner.

“Yeah, his bullshit’s the reason I’m nomad now,” I say, “Him rattin’ got my chapter busted all to hell.”

“Well, glad to see you on the outside, brother,” he says and turns away, though he still looks damn suspicious of us. Good—Deadlock won’t survive run-ins with Talon without guys like this.

Hell, they might not survive even with him. Pity, they almost made it 100 years.

“What’s that all about?” Lena asks, her brow furrowed.

“Jesse McCree’s a damn rat who sold out Deadlock to the Feds years ago, savin’ his own ass from prison. Fuckin’ traitor,” I mutter. It’s been a long damn time since I thought those things about myself, but following the script is easy enough. “Longer yer around, Jack, the more you’ll learn about him. Dark day in Deadlock history, the day we let his scrawny ass in…”

I can see this sort of talk about her boss is making Lena uncomfortable, so I just slap her on the shoulder and wander farther inside. “You jes’ keep an eye out, watch my back, got it?” I whisper.

“Roger,” she winks, her smile returning. _God_ , that voice is so wrong.

“So, what’s your client lookin’ to buy?” the treasurer asks, stowing his pistol.

“My understanding is, he’s lookin’ to buy ammunition. Though I imagine that’s somethin’ he’ll want to discuss himself with the Prez or the Veep,” I add.

“Yeah, everybody’s been runnin’ around here like headless chickens gettin’ ready for the Talon meet today. They sent more than just the scary lady this time.”

“Scary lady?” I ask, raising my brows.

“She’s got a thousand-yard stare, man. She’s _hard_ ,” he mutters to me. “Hope yer client is ready to go toe-to-toe with that.”

“He’s yakuza—pretty sure he can handle a scary lady. Japan’s full of ‘em,” I smirk. “Still, if we can squeeze in before Scary Talon Lady and buy some ammo, that’d be great.”

“Not sure that’ll work,” the treasurer says, “They’re already here, and buying ammo, too. Among other things, of course,” he adds, gesturing to the crates. Bingo.

“Alright, alright, you talk with yer people, I’ll talk with my people, see if we can’t work somethin’ out here. Sooner we can get in an’ out, the better—although I’m sure Mr. Tachibana’d love to set up somethin’ more regular if you think you can handle two major buyers. If not, I’m sure we can scoot on down the highway to Phoenix or Palm Springs, find a chapter looking for a big contract…”

“Now, now, I’m sure the Prez’ll wanna talk to yer guy, you just wait here,” he says, hurrying to the back office.

“Alright,” I say, heading back to Hanzo and Lena, “Gonna see if we can grab at least a few samples before we see about placing an order. Might be able to delay our bidding war a bit, sir.”

“I am not concerned,” Hanzo replied, his tone even and confident.

“Keep yer eyes peeled, Talon’s already here, and we don’t know what they brought with ‘em,” I add in a lower tone. “Jack, we’ve gotta be ready for anything,” I add even quieter. “Hanzo, I trust you can help watch my back, too—none of us ain’t got any friends here.”

“Understood,” he nods.

A few more minutes pass by with us making fake idle chatter, carefully watching as the security mills about, some Deadlock and other biker affiliates, others in Talon uniforms, before the silence breaks again.

“Sorry to keep you boys waiting. These last minute arrangements can be such a pain,” a man—the president, I read from across the room—says as he steps out of the office. The VP, I assume, and the treasurer follow him, along with someone in purple and some sort of helmet, probably the Talon rep. Hanzo steps forward to speak to the chapter prez, but my blood runs cold when I finally get a clear view of the ‘scary lady’.

She looks like a frostbitten corpse with how waxy and blue-tinged her skin is, and my infrared confirms that her body temperature is way lower than it ought to be, but it doesn’t slow her down a bit. I’ve only seen physiological modifications _that_ advanced in two other places. Well, technically, I’ve seen it in one other place; SEP and Overwatch ended up with some pretty significant overlap—but only one person was cavalier enough to do that much tampering in peacetime, throwing genetic experiments at the wall to see what sticks.

It looks like a certain Dr. O’Deorain is on Talon’s payroll, and somehow, I’m not surprised one damn bit. If she would work with Blackwatch, she’d work with fuckin’ _anybody—_ why stop with making supersoldiers for Overwatch when she could make supersoldiers for Talon, and probably for better pay? Good thing the doctor ain’t here, or she’d blow my cover even worse than Rick did, and I know she wouldn’t feel a thing over getting my brains blown out.

Lena’s in my ear in an instant.

“ _That’s her!_ ” she hisses, her voice back to its normal pitch—whatever fiddling she’d done to her accelerator, she clearly thinks it’s time to undo. “The sniper!”

The sniper’s attention shifts to us, and even without my eye I can see the recognition on her face. Her hand flies to her sidearm, and I can feel the whole world slowing down. Her focus doesn’t shift even a degree as her fingers curl around the grip of her pistol—looks like a Walther PKK/S from this distance, good to know she’s a traditionalist—though once it’s clear of her holster, her eyes flick up to the lights.

My hand is already on Peacekeeper, my other is in front of Lena—when did they get to those places?

“Heads up!” I yell, my aim zeroing in on Lena’s sniper.

The first shot is hers—showers of sparks fall from overhead as the lights short out from her shot, and there’s a sudden increase in the volume in the room. I don’t hear words, though, just the noise of Deadlock yells and confused gunshots.

The next one is mine. Thanks to my eye, I don’t have any problem picking her out in the dark, even before a series of lights on that helmet of hers come on like little runway lights for a bullet. Someone didn’t think _that_ design through very well.

But I’m not shooting to kill. Not yet. Not until Mr. Shimada gives the order. Just a glancing blow—enough to let her know that I could end her if I wanted to.

“Jesse!” My name cuts through the din—the world returns to its usual speed with a sickening lurch in my gut—my field of view widens, muzzle flashes entering the corners of my view.

“That’s her, Hanzo!” I yell over the gunfire, taking cover behind a crate full of other guns. “What’s the plan?”

“I want her alive!” Hanzo snarls.

“Lena!” I call out, the blue light of her accelerator easy to pick out in the chaos. “Capture and extract to point B!”

“Roger!”

It’s harder to see the sniper in infrared, with her body temperature being so low, but her headgear gives off enough heat that I can track her through the ambient heat of the room—now rising with the burning gunpowder and panicking bodies everywhere. She’s grabbing a gun from one of the crates—I fire again, the bullet pinging off of the rifle in her hand. I hear her shout in surprise, but she gets her grip back.

Lena’s zipping around as much as she ever did, though her usual laughter is gone. This is way too personal. I can see Hanzo moving up to engage as Lena lays down cover fire. My job now is a familiar one; protect the team. Just like Cap’n Ana taught me. Take down anyone whose guns look like they’re drifting too much in my squad’s direction.

I squeeze off two rounds into two bikers, and I still hear yelling and rifle fire and shotgun blasts all around—sounds like there’s plenty of guys who were itching for a fight. Also sounds like this arrangement with Talon is about to be called off, once word of this shootout reaches the mother charter. The sniper yells something, and my French is rusty, but ‘extraction’ is the same either way.

Emergency lights finally manage to kick on from somewhere in the building casting everything in a low-energy red glow. The sounds of gunfire in the rest of the warehouse have died down enough to hear what sounds like a grappling hook being fired. Sure enough, the blue bitch is trying to escape. Hanzo’s leg flies up in an impressively high kick, a blade flicking out from his heel—slicing through both the cable for the hook and another pair of pants.

I vault over my cover, Peacekeeper leveled at the Talon assassin, cornered by Lena and Hanzo. That’s worth a raise for the both of them, I figure. Her gaze is just as hard-set as the treasurer said, and the closer I get, the more familiar she seems—I think back to all the women in Blackwatch that I knew, she’s gotta be one of them—

“McCree,” she croons, her smirk somehow not reaching her eyes, “Ça fait longtemps. Or did you never manage to learn any French?”

My steps falter. The new silence of the warehouse is holding its breath for me. The penny drops—why the hell did it take so long for these pieces to connect? She’s not Blackwatch, she was never even an agent. But she _was…_

“ _Amélie fucking Lacroix_ ,” I spit, my pace picking up as I jam my gun under her jaw. “You traitorous _bitch!_ ”

She wasn’t Blackwatch—neither was her husband. But Gérard _was_ the head of the Talon counterterrorism efforts and needed Blackwatch cooperation all the time. Including for the extraction operation to recover his wife, who they’d kidnapped on her way back from the studio one night.

 _I risked my life to help save her only for her to, what, go all Stockholm syndrome on Talon? Did she kill Gérard, too? Was she a sleeper agent all along? A Talon sniper killed Captain Ana, too—_ A million angry questions fly through my mind as she laughs that corpsey laugh, her cold lips twisted in a cruel grin.

“Behind you!”

Lena blinks from her place, zipping past me—I turn my head just in time for my heart to stop. Another Talon operative, this one in all black, has two shotguns. One of them is smoking, Lena cries out, blood sprays everywhere _—_

And then the spray stops, reverses _—_

In a flash, Lena is back where she started and whole, though she looks a bit shaken up.

“ _Don’t make me save your arse like that, sir!_ ” she gasps, keeping one pistol trained on our blue captive, the other on the new arrival.

“Remind me to thank y’ properly later,” I say, doing my best to keep my tone steady and slow my heart rate back down. I slide my stance to keep a better eye on this new jackass who thinks sneaking up on enemies is kosher. He’s tall as hell, in a black hood with a bone-white horse skull mask hiding his face. What the hell is it with Talon and all this cavaderific imagery?

“You think there’s going to _be_ a later,” the man in black growls, his voice like sandpaper wrapped around nails on a chalkboard. “Cute.”

“Well, I sure as hell don’t plan on dyin’ in this shithole—my days of wantin’ to die for Deadlock are long done,” I say, my gaze narrowing.

“I’m not here to give you what you _want_ ,” he grates, “Though it’s always a pleasure to kill Overwatch agents. Lucky me, it’s a two for one.”

“It’s true, then,” Lena snaps, “Hunting down Overwatch agents—you’re The Reaper.”

“Talon sure is petty these days, huntin’ down ex-agents of an organization that didn’t manage to shut ‘em down,” I remark, digging the barrel of Peacekeeper into Amelie’s jaw for emphasis.

“It’s not strictly business—mostly pleasure.” I can hear the rotting smirk hidden under his mask. “Besides, you boy scout ingrates can’t help but poke your noses in our work. You’ve earned every last death.”

“Shows what you know,” I smirk, “I’m the farthest thing from a boy scout.”

My arm is always fast enough. I snag a flashbang off my belt and fling it at the Reaper, rolling to the side to line up a better shot, out of his line of fire.

But when I’m upright again, he’s gone—nothing but musty black smoke.

“But you’re still an ingrate.”

I can smell the decay; I turn my head in time to catch sight of him behind me again—my arm is always fast enough. It shoots up, catching the Reaper’s wrist in time to throw off his shot, but the sound of the blast next to my head leaves my ears ringing. His other hand swings, the metal of either his gun or his clawed hand gouging at my cheekbone.

For a zombie-ass motherfucker, he packs a hell of a punch.

“Jesse!”

I manage to roll out of the way in time to see Hanzo leaping into the fray, swinging a crowbar with perfect form. He connects with the side of the Reaper’s head with a sickening crunch, though he recovers with apparently little difficulty. I spring back up, trading shots with the Reaper. For a corpse, he’s got great reflexes, and that smoke trick of his is a hell of a fake-out every time I think I’ve got him pinned down. He has a little more trouble guessing Hanzo’s moves, but so do I—I don’t want to fire into that melee...

“Sir!” Lena cries out.

I swing around—Lena’s got a brand new busted lip, and Amelie is making a break for it.

“Get him,” I yell, barreling after her. A body check brings her down rather ungracefully, and it quickly becomes clear to me that while Talon might have trained her to be a great sniper, they didn’t train her to be a great hand-to-hand martial artist. Neither did Gerard, I guess—some Krav Maga lessons 10 years ago might’ve changed all this.

I manage to catch a length of her grappling hook line, and lash her wrist to the first limb she throws my way--her ankle. That oughta keep her from running right away so fast--

“Aaugh!”

I whip around; I’ve never heard Hanzo make a sound like that. He’s on the ground, dragging himself by his arms—did the Reaper shoot out his knee or something? But there’s no blood… I race back, firing once, twice—

Out of nowhere, my right eye deactivates, my arm goes limp, slamming painfully into my knee as it shuts down.

“Que onda, Jesse?”

Sombra.

“Dammit, how many backstabbing bitches are _in_ this place?!” I snarl, whipping around to try to get a bead on her. It’s tough, having to use my non-dominant eye.

“You weren’t even supposed to _be here,_ idiot!” she snaps, her gun pointed at my head. “This isn’t my fault!”

“The hell it ain’t!”

Lena dashes over, but Sombra holds up a hand—no, she’s pulled up a command console of some sort. I knew her implants were advanced, but—

“Ah-ah-ah,” she begins, “I hacked Shimada’s legs, they went out. I hacked McCree’s eye, it went out. What do you think would happen to _you,_  amiga, if I hack that chronal accelerator of yours?” Sombra asks, smirking. “On the ground,” she orders, cool as a cucumber.

I feel my knees getting kicked, and I’m on the floor with Hanzo—just about as heavily, too; I can’t even catch my fall. A boot far heavier than Sombra’s weird toe shoes grinds in between my shoulder blades.

“Guns on the floor, ingrates,” the Reaper growls. “Playtime’s over.”

I grunt in protest, but with another grind I release Peacekeeper, staring at my pistol with my one good eye. Hanzo growls, pushing himself up on his hands and knees as best he can, but his legs won’t cooperate—they won’t bend enough to get himself up.

“What’s a guy like you doing running around with Encyclopedia Brown here, Shimada?” the Reaper asks, his laugh almost more like coughing. “The heir of the Shimada clan ought to be running with the big dogs.”

“I’m no heir,” Hanzo snarls, “Not anymore. Not after what I did…”

“Talon could change that for you,” the Reaper growls, “What’s this ingrate gonna do to get you the revenge you seek?”

“You don’t know the first thing about him,” Hanzo snaps, “ _Or me_ ,” he adds, spitting on the Reaper’s boot.

The Reaper growls, irritated.

“Then I’ll take you out with the rest of the trash,” he grates, pressing the barrel of one of those shotguns to the back of my head.

I look up at Sombra, and I regret that her double-crossing backstabbing face is the last thing I’m ever going to see.


	11. Breakthrough

Our eyes meet, and I can see something flicker across Sombra’s stupid face—a decision. She whips around to face the Reaper, and her long-nails fly across the holo-console.

“Somb—”

Something hits me in the back of the head and I let out a startled yelp—a moment later, one of his shotguns is laying next to my head. I crane my neck around to see the Reaper dissolving into a blob of foul-smelling black mist, spreading across the floor like crude oil. A few more taps on her holo-console, and the feeling rockets back into my fingertips—my eye boots back up with an ‘unknown shutdown error’ message and a few quick diagnostic tests.

“Hurry up—you only have a minute or so before his nanites are able to get around my hack and reconstitute him,” she says, de-hacking Hanzo’s legs. I hop up from the floor and shake the black drops from Peacekeeper. I can see the globs trying to pull back together, but it’s like oil and water; it hisses and pops like oil, too, angrily trying to pull itself back into the shape of the Reaper.

“Sombra! What are you doing?!” Amélie yells as she struggles to free herself from the knots I put in her cables. Sombra’s gaze narrows and she sprays a few bullets in Amélie’s direction.

“Shut up, you pretentious bitch,” Sombra calls in return, tucking her gun into a holster against the small of her back. “This way—we can get out this way. Hurry!”

“Why should we trust you?” Lena spits.

“We ain’t got nothin’ else,” I say, tugging on Lena’s wrist for a moment before following Sombra. “Hanzo, yer legs workin’? C’mon!”

We duck and weave through rows of stacked crates until we finally reach a passcode-locked roller door. Sombra has it hacked and rolling up in less than a second.

“Third one from the left is the getaway car—key’s in the ignition,” she says, gesturing to a row of almost identical black SUVs—Talon’s rides, I suppose.

“Y’all get it movin,” I order, watching Sombra carefully. “…Why the hell you doin’ this, girl?”

“Hey—we go way back, don’t we? That’s gotta count for something,” she winks. “I’ll let you get arrested, but I won’t let you get killed.”

“What, Talon’s money ain’t good enough for you?” I ask, my eyes narrowing.

“I prefer making an honest dollar when I can—don’t you?” she shoots back. “Now get in the damn car—I’ll contact you when I’m safe.” Sombra rises up on her toes and pecks me on the cheek, and when she rocks back on her heels, she disappears in a flash of purple light; I’m reminded of Lena’s accelerator. Probably stole that little piece of tech sifting through what was left of the Overwatch databases. How much old Overwatch tech did Talon have now, thanks to her?

“Hurry up, sir!” Lena cries, jerking me out of my thoughts. I hoof it over to the car and hop in, the repulsors humming in perfect unison and blowing dust and sand across the hardpan as we finally— _finally—_ put those Talon assholes behind us.


	12. Not All Good Things

Whatever album was queued up has started over by the time I break the silence in the car.

“Well. This was a massive snafu,” I sigh.

“Don’t say that,” Lena replies automatically, “We made it out in one piece, didn’t we?”

“Yeah, but this whole case is a bust!” I groan, sinking down in the backseat. “We figured out who shot Mondatta, yeah, but we stole the evidence we needed to make that link—so even if we could get Lacroix into a courtroom, a woman presumed dead, mind you, all our evidence is inadmissible. ‘Sides, she’d prolly jes’ break the bailiff’s neck and pirouette on out of the courtroom.”

“Scotland Yard still has the information they obtained from the shell, it’s not hopeless,” Lena offers.

“Not only that, but Talon’s got that whole warehouse full of weapons now,” I sigh. “That whole chapter’s leadership just got wiped out, an’ Lacroix and the Reaper are sure as hell gonna help themselves to all that hardware. Guns, bombs, those big boy Mexican EMPs…even if Deadlock cuts their contract with Talon tonight, they’ve snapped up an impressive arsenal, and there ain’t nothin’ we can do about it.”

“We can report this, can we not?” Hanzo asks.

“I broke out of jail less than 48 hours ago, Hanzo, I ain’t gonna be able to give _anything_ to a cop without pro’lly gettin’ shot. Y’all ain’t in much better circumstances, given that you’re accomplices to that little adventure,” I sigh. “…Guess it’s time to dust off some of my old fake identities, set up in a new town—San Francisco sound good to y’all?”

“Oh, cheer up, sir—we’ll figure something out,” Lena says, her optimism totally unfounded.

* * *

It takes us four days to get back into my office in New York. Well, four days for ‘Lizzie Wellington’, ‘Takashi Matsushima’ and ‘Joel Morricone’ to get into New York, and ‘Takashi’s’ identity is paper thin.

“Damn, looks like you guys hid jes’ about everything, didn’t you?” I ask, looking around the office. The computers had been swapped for much older, junkier models that look like they could barely hold the information from the cases I’ve worked in the last year; the liquor cabinet had even been rearranged to put a mid-range whisky in the place of honor, with all the good stuff hidden away with the nice coffee maker.

“Well, I couldn’t be sure what might be incriminating in the end,” Lena says. “Anything Mr. Shimada touched might be incriminating, after all…”

“Right, right—all yer evidence would’ve disappeared,” I muse. “Hell, you probably should’ve been the only one to help bust me out, in that case.”

“Come on, now, Mr. Shimada is a ninja, isn’t he?”

“Lena, you can’t just call a Japanese person a ninja,” I frown.

“No, no! That’s what he told me,” Lena laughs.

“Mr. Shimada, you can’t jes’ tell folks you’re a ninja because yer Japanese,” I call from inside my office.

“I have been trained extensively in the traditional Japanese ways of stealth, sabotage and assassination—which, in Japanese, is ‘ninjutsu’,” he replies, plugging the good coffee machine back in.

“Well now… Looks like I’m the only one without something for the talent show,” I sigh, rolling my eyes with a grin.

“Come now, sir, you have plenty of talents,” Lena smiles.

“Absolutely,” Hanzo purrs with a smirk.

I open my mouth to continue our banter, when there’s a sudden pounding on the office door. Cop-level pounding. Shit.

Lena smooths her hair slightly before strolling over to the door and, after giving us a moment to duck inside my office, opening it to the angry face of Officer Kowalczyk.

“Good evening, officer,” Lena smiles.

“Where is he?” Kowalczyk snaps.

“Where’s who?” Lena asks; I can practically hear her batting her eyelashes.

“You know who—where’s McCree?”

“He’s not here, have you checked his house? Or tried calling him?” she reasons.

“He wasn’t released, yet—but he’s not in his cell. Hell, we don’t even have a record of him being arrested,” he says, exasperated.

“Really? Funny, that!” Lena muses.

“Tampering with evidence isn’t funny,” he growls.

“Tampering with evidence? Sounds to me like there wasn’t any evidence to tamper with,” Lena smirks. Good girl.

“Listen, I know we brought him in, I know I talked with _you_ on the phone about him, even if there’s no record of it. I know it happened. I don’t know how you guys did this, but two officers are dead and I’m gonna find out how and why.” Silence for a few moments. “I know he’s in there. I heard him.”

“Well, you can’t come in without a warrant, and good luck getting one without any evidence of a crime. Good evening,” Lena announces, swinging the door shut. A few more seconds of silence. “I said good evening, sir,” she calls through the door.

Hanzo and I slide back from my office door as Lena comes in, huffing and swinging the door shut. “What a knob.”

“Ah, he’s just trying to do his job, jes’ like anyone else,” I say. “…And, y’know, we _did_ do some stuff.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, sir,” Lena winks.

“Right, right, what were we talking about?” I chuckle. The phone on my desk starts to ring, and my brows knit together. “Y’all get back to work gettin’ the office back together,” I say, sliding back into my chair and flicking on the comm. “You got Joel Morricone,” I announce, putting on my best Jersey accent.

“Ugh, you’re not fooling anyone, cabrón.”

“Guess you got out of there okay, huh, you backstabbing bitch,” I grumble, frowning at the purple sugar skull crackling across the screen of my office comm.

“Hey, you know better than anyone that playing two sides sometimes means you have to make a choice. How many times did you have to double cross someone to keep _your_ cover?” Sombra asks.

“Oh, so you’re undercover now?” I scoff.

“No, idiot, I was undercover when you brought me the bullet. And now that I’ve turned around and bit Talon, I’m on the run. You know what that’s like, right?”

I sigh. My first urge is to say that Overwatch was nothing like Talon, but really…isn’t it worse to lie to the whole world about the shit you’re doing behind closed doors? We did worse than Talon sometimes… _I_ did worse than Talon…

“Yeah, but we paid the price,” I mutter, glaring at the skull. “What’re _you_ gonna have to give up?”

“Oh, don’t worry about little old me,” Sombra says. “After all, I can hack into the NYPD records and erase all traces of your arrest. I can still take care of myself; Talon’s money didn’t make me soft or anything.”

“Wouldn’t’ve _needed_ to do that if you hadn’t’ve pinned shit on me in the first place,” I growl.

“Okay, okay. how about this,” she sighs, “I’m currently overnighting a particular bullet casing to Scotland Yard, and in 27 minutes, they’re going to receive a very _interesting_ anonymous tip on where they can find a dead drop with a cache of fun facts about the case. Fair?”

“I don’t think that word means what you think it means,” I sigh, shaking my head.

“Hey, I’m doing my best here!” she says, exasperated. “Look, I screwed up, I admit it—shit happens. But I made the right choice in the end, no?”

The silence is deafening.

“Anyway, you won’t have to hear from me again for a while—it takes a little work to disappear yourself from a group like Talon. Lucky me, though, I can do it from the Caribbean, and I need a vacation anyway after this week.”

“Have fun. Try not to stab anyone in the back while yer there,” I say, though the edge has left my voice somewhat.

“I’ll do my best,” she laughs. “…Thanks for not just shooting me.”

“Well, we go way back, don’t we? That’s gotta count fer somethin’.”

“I’d say I owe you one, but since I just erased your criminal record…”

“ _You made that criminal record!_ ”

“I’ll say I owe you _half_ a favor, then. Deal?”

I groan. “Prob’ly ain’t gonna get a better deal than that outta you,” I sigh. “Deal.”

“See you sometime, vaquero,” Sombra says, and the line goes dead.

I stare at my desktop for a long moment before letting out a long, slow breath. There’s a quick rap at the door, and Hanzo pushes it open.

“I have your good bourbon,” he says, holding the bottle carefully. “Care to share a glass?”

“How kind, offering me my own liquor,” I chuckle, waving him in. I head over to the liquor cabinet and return with a few glasses, pouring a splash of alcohol in both. “Sure wish I coulda wrapped this case up nicer for ya, Mr. Shimada,” I sigh, opening my humidor and pulling out a cigar at random.

“Mmm,” he tones in response, swilling his drink for a moment before sipping at it. “Revenge, it seems, must wait for another day.”

“We got so damn close,” I sigh, rolling the cigar between my fingers.

“Allow me,” Hanzo murmurs, carefully plucking the cigar from my hand and setting about cutting it for me. I take a few minutes to carefully toast the foot, and savor the first draw; vanilla and leather and a hint of pepper in the finish. It makes me feel a little bit better, anyway.

“…So where do we go from here, darlin’?” I ask, watching Hanzo lean against my desk and sigh as well.

“I still require your service, Mr. McCree,” he says. “…Jesse,” he corrects, his gaze flicking up to me after a moment.

“Yeah?” I reply, staring down into my glass.

“It certainly can’t be good for my reputation to have now snubbed not only my own clan, but Talon as well,” Hanzo says, pulling out his long pipe and finally joining me in sharing a smoke. “I’m sure I will need protection now more than ever.”

“Thought you were capable enough on yer own,” I remark, puffing gently on my cigar.

“I am capable, yes,” Hanzo says, rising from his seat and wandering to my window to peer down into the street. “I spent my whole life in the clan surrounded by so-called allies, but alone. I was…perhaps not ‘happy’, but content with that. Being on the run, however, has given me, shall we say, a taste for adventure?” he smirks, glancing over at me. “And you are nothing if not an adventure, Jesse McCree.”

I chuckle softly and ash my cigar, rising from my seat to lean against the wide windowsill. “I’ve gotta warn you, my usual cases are less interesting. Finding wayward husbands, gathering details for some stuffy lawyer,” I say.

“Perhaps I can continue to find interesting cases for you to work, then,” Hanzo purrs, leaning closer. “Keep you on your toes.”

“Interestin’ cases would go a long way to keepin’ me outta that bottle,” I smirk.

“Good,” Hanzo smirks in return, taking a draw from his pipe and blowing sweet smelling smoke to the side, “Because I’ve developed quite a taste for your liquor.”

I chuckle and sip a little more of my bourbon, the fire filling my throat like smoke filled my mouth a minute ago, though the warmth settling in my belly isn’t entirely down to the drink. Hanzo’s hand slides up my thigh for a moment, his dark eyes flicking across my lips before he leans in, his thin lips parting against mine.

My hand slips easily around his waist, grazing the small of his back through his immaculate suit. That simple brush has him shifting closer, pressing against me, slotting himself so easily between my legs it’s like he’s meant to be there. I press my hand more firmly against his back, his fingers slide up to grasp my tie, my lips part, his tongue dips into my mouth—sweet Jesus, he tastes so good. The flavor of his tobacco smoke laces the sheen of bourbon on his tongue, dancing from his mouth into mine and mingling with the cigar flavors still clinging to my mouth. I have to hold back a whimper as he pulls away, his fingers trailing down my chest.

“Looks like that ain’t the only thing you’ve developed a taste for,” I whisper after a moment, my voice shaking slightly with anticipation.

“Perhaps,” he chuckles in return, pressing his lips to mine again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _art by[hiddeninthunder](http://hiddeninthunder.tumblr.com)_


	13. Epilogue

“This is the office of Jesse McCree and Associates, Private Investigator, how may I help you?” Hanzo asks, his tone shockingly smooth and inviting. “…Why yes, Officer Johnson, Miss Oxton _is_ available…Very well, I will transfer your call,” he says, calmly tapping buttons on the multiline comm.

“Lena, you have a personal call on line 1,” Hanzo announces, poking his head through the door to Lena’s office, his gaze flicking around the room as Lena darts to and fro, arranging her knick-knacks.

“Cheers,” she winks, blinking over to her desk.

Hanzo carefully closes the door to Lena’s office, the lettering on her door shiny and new: ‘Lena Oxton, Private Investigator’.

“Looks like you’re settling in pretty well,” I say, leaning against my office doorframe.

“Hmm,” he tones, running a finger across the top of his new desk and examining it. “I suppose this will do.”

I chuckle, pushing myself off the doorframe and strolling over to Hanzo, his eyes alight with mischief. “If you want a more luxurious desk, I suppose we could arrange for that—your treat,” I remark.

“I have been considering it,” Hanzo smirks, leaning up into my ear. “Something that can handle a little more _weight_ ,” he purrs.

“Mine can handle some extra weight,” I wink, sliding my hand around to the small of his back. “Although it’d have to wait until after office hours—tryin’ to run a professional operation here.”

“Well, you are certainly ‘trying’,” Hanzo chuckles, giving the end of my tie a playful little flip. He sinks back down into his chair and crosses his legs before reaching over to fiddle with a pen absentmindedly. “Don’t you have some investigating to do, Mr. McCree?” he asks, arching his body in a teasing line, “Or are you going to gawk all day?”

“Alright, alright, I hear ya,” I chuckle, retreating back into my office. The sun is weakly shining outside, cigar smoke is lazily curling up from my ashtray, Lena’s muffled voice floats in from the next room… Seems like we’re on the up and up.

I reach back and rap my knuckles on my desk. No sense in jinxing this.

“Oi,” Lena calls, poking her head into my office through the inside door. “Did we forget to pay the phone bill? My line with Emily just went dead.”

“No, we’re current on all our bills for once,” I say, frowning. “Just call her back.”

“I tried—nothing,” Lena frowns. I frown as well and pick up my office line, punching in the number for Sal’s Authentic Sicilian Pizzeria and shrug as it rings, just as expected. “Our line is fine…”

Lena shifts in place, a worries look growing on her face. “…I’ll try again,” she says slowly, shutting the door with as much calm as possible, but I can hear her accelerator blinking her away from the door right away.

There’s an uncomfortable crawling sensation in my gut—that feeling that tells me that I’d better peek into this myself, but I’d better be ready for anything. I try not to sit too quickly as I pull up a search and tap in ‘London News’. Nothing out of the ordinary crops up, given the unrest that’s been happening in the weeks after the assassination; ‘man injured in shooting at protest’, ‘massive fire’, ‘murdered nanny was undercover spy’—that looks like fun. I open that up in a new tab for later. A few refreshes turn up nothing new, but the feeling isn’t going away.

I pull up a few social media feeds for good measure.

_‘wots happenin in london m8’_   
_‘just saw the lights all go out—lots of explosions! #london #wtf’  
‘Ugh, BBCs out, and right in the middle of the Bake-Off finale. Go fucking figure’_

God damnit, I hate being right all the time.

I take a long draw on my cigar before sighing out the smoke and rising from my seat. I don’t know what I’m going to say to Lena, but someone’s gotta tell her something’s happening. I crack the door open and she’s furiously punching in numbers on her office comm again and again, to no avail.

“Lena, honey…” I start, my brows furrowing slightly.

“I’m getting there, I’m getting there,” she says, dialing again.

“Darlin’…Something’s happened in London—”

“ _No_ ,” she snaps, “The call was just dropped, I’m getting her back—”

“Nobody’s sure what’s happened yet, but folks are talkin’ online—”

“No no no _no no no no,”_ she insists, her grip tightening on her phone; she’s been trying both.

I cross the office in about three and a half steps and wrap Lena up in my arms, the volume of her voice rising quickly as she sobs into my chest, her fist pounding against my back.

“Sssh…it’s okay, hon, we’re gonna figure out what’s happenin’ and we’re gonna get in touch with Emily, an’ it’ll all be okay—y’hear?” I murmur, rubbing her back. “We’re gonna get this figured out, alright? Promise.” I coax her back into my office and urge her onto the couch and press a glass of bourbon into her hand—the good stuff.

I lean out of my office and beckon Hanzo over, frowning slightly. “Han, I need you to keep a very close eye on the situation on the ground in London.”

“What do you mean?” Hanzo asks, leaning in.

“Something’s just happened—London’s dark, no news is out yet,” I murmur. “We’ve gotta figure this out, for Lena.”

“Of course,” Hanzo nods, turning back to his computer and immediately pulling up a dozen news feeds, social media, live news feeds…it’s the sort of stuff I’d expect from Sombra. Good thing, too—she hasn’t given me a safe line to return contact with.

Reports are starting to roll in—‘Suspected terror attack’, ‘EMP’ and ‘Omnic casualties expected in the thousands’ all flash starkly on the screen.

* * *

48 hours.

It’s been 48 hours since the EMP was detonated in the Omnic slums beneath London. The casualty rate is Crisis-level. Last I checked, the body count was well over 10,000 Omnics, with several hundred human deaths as well, between the fires and explosions caused by the after-effects of the EMP, people whose medical devices were rendered useless by the pulse, train derailments and hovercar accidents.

Lena’s hardly been able to talk to Emily. Not that we haven’t been able to reach her in the aftermath, but law and order is stretched to the breaking point now. Hell, Scotland Yard has probably forgot our little visit at this point.

I hear the front door to the office open from my desk, and think nothing of it as I continue gathering up articles about the attack. Talon hasn’t claimed credit for this attack yet, but I know it’s their work. _I know it_. They were buying EMP devices from Deadlock, after all… Conversation filters in from the front office.

“Yes?”

“My name is Tekhartha Zenyatta. My master was assassinated in London. My brethren were slaughtered in the Underground. I need your help to…find closure.”

“I understand. One moment, please, I will fetch Detective McCree—”

“No—I need _your_ help, Hanzo Shimada. I do not have money, but I can reward _you_ handsomely, if you care to listen…”

I watch as Hanzo calmly shuts the door to my inner office. I can still hear his next question.

“What sort of reward?”

**Author's Note:**

> Art by [hiddeninthunder](http://hiddeninthunder.tumblr.com)
> 
> http://hiddeninthunder.tumblr.com/post/172437107444/art-for-the-case-of-the-murdered-monk-a-story-for


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